MEMORABILIA. 1. Aн, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you? And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems, and new! I crossed a moor with a name of its own And a use in the world no doubt, Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 'Mid the blank miles round about – 4. For there I picked up on the heather - BUT do not let us quarrel any more, No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: Will it? tenderly? Oh, I'll content him, but to-morrow, Love! I often am much wearier than you think, This evening more than usual, and it seems As if- forgive now should you let me sit Here by the window with your hand in mine I might get up to-morrow to my work Let us try. To-morrow how you shall be glad for this! Your soft hand is a woman of itself, And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. How could you ever prick those perfect ears, While she looks no one's very dear, no less! -You, at the point of your first pride in me (That's gone you know,) — but I, at every point; My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; And all that I was born to be and do, A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead! So free we seem, so fettered fast we are: I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! All that's behind us! you don't understand But you can hear at least when people speak; And that cartoon, the second from the door - It is the thing, Love! so such things should be Behold Madonna, I am bold to say. I can do with my pencil what I know, No sketches first, no studies, that 's long past - Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, And fail in doing. I could count twenty such On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, Who strive - you don't know how the others strive To paint a little thing like that you smeared Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, Yet do much less, so much less, some one says, (I know his name, no matter) so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia! I am judged. There burns a truer light of God in them, In their vexed, beating, stuffed and stopped-up brain, His hue mistaken - what of that? or else, Rightly traced and well ordered what of that? - Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Placid and perfect with my art the worse! I know both what I want and what might gain "Had I been two, another and myself, Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" doubt. Yonder's a work, now, of that famous youth No The Urbinate who died five years ago. ('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) Well, I can fancy how he did it all, |