Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing, Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good-- Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going, As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood-- All shall be mine! But thou must treat me not As prosperous ones are treated, those who live At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot, In readiness to take what thou wilt give, And free to let alone what thou refusest; For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest Me, who am only Pippa,--old-year's sorrow, Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow: Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow. All other men and women that this earth Belongs to, who all days alike possess, Make general plenty cure particular dearth, Get more joy one way, if another, less: Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven,-- Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's! Try now! Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones-- And let thy morning rain on that superb Great haughty Ottima; can rain disturb Her Sebald's homage? All the while thy rain Beats fiercest on her shrub-house window-pane He will but press the closer, breathe more warm Against her cheek; how should she mind the storm? And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloom O'er Jules and Phene,--what care bride and groom Save for their dear selves? 'T is their marriage-day; And while they leave church and go home their way, Hand clasping hand, within each breast would be Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee. Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve With mist,--will Luigi and his mother grieve-- The lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth, She in her age, as Luigi in his youth, For true content? The cheerful town, warm, close And safe, the sooner that thou art morose, Receives them. And yet once again, outbreak In storm at night on Monsignor, they make Such stir about,--whom they expect from Rome To visit Asolo, his brothers' home, And say here masses proper to release A soul from pain,--what storm dares hurt his peace? Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward Thy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard. But Pippa--just one such mischance would spoil Her day that lightens the next twelvemonth's toil At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil! And here I let time slip for naught! Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam, caught With a single splash from my ewer! You that would mock the best pursuer, Was my basin over-deep? One splash of water ruins you asleep, And up, up, fleet your brilliant bits Wheeling and counterwheeling, Reeling, broken beyond healing: Now grow together on the ceiling! That will task your wits. Whoever it was quenched fire first, hoped to see