That's somewhat. And you'll find the soul you have

missed,

Within yourself when you return Him thanks!

"Rub all out!" well, well, there's my life, in short,

And so the thing has gone on ever since.

I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds
You should not take a fellow eight years old
And make him swear to never kiss the girls
I'm my own master, paint now as I please -
Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house!
Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front-
Those great rings serve more purposes than just
To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse!

And yet the old schooling sticks the old grave eyes

Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work,

The heads shake still—"It's Art's decline, my son!
You're not of the true painters, great and old :

Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find :

Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer.

Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!"

Flower o' the pine,

You keep your mistr. · manners, and I'll stick to mine !

...

I'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know!

Don't you think they're the likeliest to know,
They, with their Latin? so I swallow my rage,

Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint
To please them Sometimes do, and sometimes don't,
For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come

A turn

some warm eve finds me at my saints

A laugh, a cry, the business of the world
(Flower o' the peach,

Death for us all, and his own life for each!)
And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs o'er,
The world and life's too big to pass for a dream,
And I do these wild things in sheer despite,
And play the fooleries you catch me at,

In pure rage! the old mill-horse, out at grass
After hard
his stiff heels so,

years, throws up

Although the miller does not preach to him

The only good of grass is to make chaff.

What would men have? Do they like grass or noMay they or mayn't they? all I want's the thing Settled forever one way: as it is,

You tell too many lies and hurt yourself.

You don't like what you only like too much,
You do like what, if given you at your word,
You find abundantly detestable.

For me, I think I speak as I was taught
I always see the Garden and God there
A-making man's wife-and, my lesson learned,
The value and significance of flesh,

I can't unlearn ten minutes afterward.

You understand me: I'm a beast, I know. But see, now why, I see as certainly As that the morning-star's about to shine, What will hap some day. We've a youngster here

Comes to our convent, studies what I do,

Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop

His name is Guidi - he'll not mind the monks
They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk
He picks my practice up- he'll paint apace,
I hope so though I never live so long,
I know what's sure to follow. You be judge!
You speak no Latin more than I, belike—

However, you're my man, you've seen the world

The beauty and the wonder and the power,

The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades, Changes, surprises, — and God made it all!

For what? do you feel thankful, ay or no,
For this fair town's face, yonder river's line.
The mountain round it and the sky above,
Much more the figures of man, woman, child,
These are the frame to? What's it all about?
To be passed o'er, despised? or dwelt upon,
Wondered at? oh, this last of course, you say.
But why not do as well as say, — paint these
Just as they are, careless what comes of it?
God's works - paint any one, and count it crime
To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works
Are here already-nature is complete:
Suppose you reproduce her- (which you can't)
There's no advantage! you must beat her, then."
For, don't you mark, we're made so that we love
First when we see them painted, things we have passed
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;

And so they are better, painted-better to us,
Which is the same thing. Art was given for that

God uses us to help each other so,

Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now,
Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk,
And trust me but you should, though! How much more,
If I drew higher things with the same truth!
That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place,
Interpret God to all of you! oh, oh,

It makes me mad to see what men shall do

And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us,
Nor blank it means intensely, and means good:
To find its meaning is my meat and drink.

"Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer"
Strikes in the Prior! "when your meaning's plain
It does not say to folks remember matins ·
Or, mind you fast next Friday." Why, for this
What need of art at all? A skull and bones,
Two bits of stick nailed cross-wise, or, what's best,
A bell to chime the hour with, does as well.
I painted a St. Laurence six months since

At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style.

"How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?"
I ask a brother: 66
Hugely," he returns

66

'Already not one phiz of your three slaves

That turn the Deacon off his toasted side,

But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content,
The pious people have so eased their own
When coming to say prayers there in a rage.
We get on fast to see the bricks beneath.
Expect another job this time next year,

For pity and religion grow i' the crowd

Your painting serves its purpose!" Hang the fools!

Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot,
Tasting the air this spicy night which turns
The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine!
Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now!
It's natural a poor monk out of bounds
Should have his apt word to excuse himself:
And hearken how I plot to make amends.

I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece

... There's for you! Give me six months, then go, see
Something in Sant' Ambrogio's... (bless the nuns !
They want a cast of my office) I shall paint
God in the midst, Madonna and her babe,
Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood,
Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet
As puff on puff of grated orris-root
When ladies crowd to church at midsummer.
And then in the front, of course a saint or two –
Saint John, because he saves the Florentines,
Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white
The convent's friends and gives them a long day,
And Job, I must have him there past mistake,
The man of Uz, (and Us without the z,
Painters who need his patience.) Well, all these
Secured at their devotions, up shall come
Out of a corner when you least expect,
As one by a dark stair into a great light