Morsel after morsel flee As merrily, as giddily ... Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on, Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple? Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon? New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple, Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll! Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the ripple Of ocean, bud there,--fairies watch unroll Such turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperse Thick red flame through that dusk green universe! I am queen of thee, floweret! And each fleshy blossom Preserve I not--(safer Than leaves that embower it, Or shells that embosom) --From weevil and chafer? Laugh through my pane then; solicit the bee; Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee, Love thy queen, worship me! --Worship whom else? For am I not, this day, Whate'er I please? What shall I please to-day? My morn, noon, eve and night--how spend my day? To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk, The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk: But, this one day, I have leave to go, And play out my fancy's fullest games; I may fancy all day--and it shall be so-- That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the names Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo! See! Up the hillside yonder, through the morning, Some one shall love me, as the world calls love: I am no less than Ottima, take warning! The gardens, and the great stone house above, And other house for shrubs, all glass in front, Are mine; where Sebald steals, as he is wont, To court me, while old Luca yet reposes: And therefore, till the shrub-house door un-closes, I ... what now?--give abundant cause for prate About me--Ottima, I mean--of late, Too bold, too confident she'll still face down The spitefullest of talkers in our town. How we talk in the little town below! But love, love, love--there's better love, I know! This foolish love was only day's first offer; I choose my next love to defy the scoffer: For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sally Out of Possagno church at noon? Their house looks over Orcana valley: Why should not I be the bride as soon As Ottima? For I saw, beside, Arrive last night that little bride-- Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash Of the pale snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses, Blacker than all except the black eyelash; I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses! --So strict was she, the veil Should cover close her pale Pure cheeks--a bride to look at and scarce touch, Scarce touch, remember, Jules! For are not such Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature, As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature? A soft and easy life these ladies lead: Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed. Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness, Keep that foot its lady primness,