From all eternity, one sure certain day The sweet invisible hand of Happy Chance Would serve them as a salad.' 'Likely enough,' My wife replied, 'but not so good as mine, Nor so well dressed.'" They laughed. Susannah's voice Broke in, "I've made a better one. The receipt Came from the _Golden Lion_. I have dished Ducklings and peas and all. Come, John, say grace." IV GALILEO I (_Celeste, in the Convent at Arcetri, writes to her old lover at Rome._) My friend, my dearest friend, my own dear love, I, who am dead to love, and see around me The funeral tapers lighted, send this cry Out of my heart to yours, before the end. You told me once you would endure the rack To save my heart one pang. O, save it now! Last night there came a dreadful word from Rome For my dear lord and father, summoning him Before the inquisitors there, to take his trial At threescore years and ten. There is a threat Of torture, if his lips will not deny The truth his eyes have seen. You know my father, You know me, too. You never will believe That he and I are enemies of the faith. Could I, who put away all earthly love, Deny the Cross to which I nailed this flesh? Could he, who, on the night when all those heavens Opened above us, with their circling worlds, Knelt with me, crushed beneath that weight of glory, Forget the Maker of that glory now? You'll not believe it. Neither would the Church, Had not his enemies poisoned all the springs And fountain-heads of truth. It is not Rome That summons him, but Magini, Sizy, Scheiner, Lorini, all the blind, pedantic crew That envy him his fame, and hate his works For dwarfing theirs. Must such things always be When truth is born? Only five nights ago we walked together, My father and I, here in the Convent garden; And, as the dusk turned everything to dreams, We dreamed together of his work well done And happiness to be. We did not dream That even then, muttering above his book, His enemies, those enemies whom the truth Stings into hate, were plotting to destroy him. Yet something shadowed him. I recall his words-- "The grapes are ripening. See, Celeste, how black And heavy. We shall have good wine this year,"-- "Yes, all grows ripe," I said, "your life-work, too, Dear father. Are you happy now to know Your book is printed, and the new world born?" He shook his head, a little sadly, I thought. "Autumn's too full of endings. Fruits grow ripe And fall, and then comes winter." "Not for you! Never," I said, "for those who write their names In heaven. Think, father, through all ages now No one can ever watch that starry sky Without remembering you. Your fame ..." And there He stopped me, laid his hand upon my arm, And standing in the darkness with dead leaves Drifting around him, and his bare grey head Bowed in complete humility, his voice