--Not envy, sure!--for if you gave me Leave to take or to refuse, In earnest, do you think I'd choose That sort of new love to enslave me? 160 Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning; As little fear of losing it as winning; Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives, And only parents' love can last our lives. At eve the Son and Mother, gentle pair, 165 Commune inside our turret; what prevents My being Luigi? While that mossy lair Of lizards through the wintertime is stirred With each to each imparting sweet intents For this new-year, as brooding bird to bird 170 (For I observe of late, the evening walk Of Luigi and his mother, always ends Inside our ruined turret, where they talk, Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends), Let me be cared about, kept out of harm, 175 And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm; Let me be Luigi! If I only knew What was my mother's face--my father, too! Nay, if you come to that, best love of all Is God's; then why not have God's love befall 180 Myself as, in the palace by the Dome, Monsignor?--who tonight will bless the home Of his dead brother; and God bless in turn That heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burn With love for all men! I tonight at least, 185 Would be that holy and beloved priest. Now wait!--even I already seem to share In God's love: what does New-year's hymn declare? What other meaning do these verses bear? _All service ranks the same with God:_ 190 _If now, as formerly he trod_ _Paradise, his presence fills_ _Our earth, each only as God wills_ _Can work--God's puppets, best and worst,_ _Are we; there is no last nor first._ 195 _Say not "a small event!" Why "small"?_ _Costs it more pain that this, ye call_ _A "great event," should come to pass,_ _Than that? Untwine me from the mass_ _Of deeds which make up life, one deed_ 200 _Power shall fall short in or exceed!_ And more of it, and more of it!--oh yes-- I will pass each, and see their happiness, And envy none--being just as great, no doubt, Useful to men, and dear to God, as they! 205 A pretty thing to care about So mightily, this single holiday! But let the sun shine! Wherefore repine? --With thee to lead me, O Day of mine, Down the grass path gray with dew, 210 Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs, Where the swallow never flew Nor yet cicala dared carouse-- No, dared carouse! [_She enters the street_ I. MORNING