We and Bice bear the loss forever.
What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture?

This: no artist lives and loves that longs

not

Once, and only once, and for One only,
(Ah, the prize!) to find his love a language
Fit and fair and simple and sufficient
Using nature that 's an art to others,
Not, this one time, art that 's turn'd his
nature.

Ay, of all the artists living, loving,
None but would forego his proper dowry,
Does he paint? he fain would write a
poem, -

Does he write? he fain would paint a picture,

Put to proof art alien to the artist's,
Once, and only once, and for One only,
So to be the man and leave the artist,
Save the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow.

Wherefore? Heaven's gift takes earth's

Not but that you know me! Lo, the moon's self!

Here in London, yonder late in Florence, Still we find her face, the thrice transfigur❜d.

Curving on a sky imbrued with color,
Drifted over Fiesole by twilight,
Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-
breadth.

Full she flar'd it, lamping Samminiato,
Rounder 'twixt the cypresses, and rounder,
Perfect till the nightingales applauded.
Now, a piece of her old self, impoverish'd,
Hard to greet, she traverses the house-
roofs,

Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver, Goes dispiritedly, — glad to finish.

What, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy?

Nay for if that moon could love a mortal,

Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy)

All her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos) She would turn a new side to her mortal, Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steers

Proves she like some portent of an iceberg

Swimming full upon the ship it founders, Hungry with huge teeth of splinter'd crystals ?

Proves she as the pav'd-work of a sapphire Seen by Moses when he climb'd the mountain ?

Moses, Aaron, Nabad and Abihu

Climb'd and saw the very God, the Highest,

Stand upon the pav'd-work of a sapphire. Like the bodied heaven in his clearness Shone the stone, the sapphire of that pav'dwork,

When they ate and drank and saw God also!

What were seen? None knows, none ever

shall know.

Only this is sure — the sight were other, Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence,

Dying now impoverish'd here in London. God be thank'd, the meanest of his creatures

Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with,

One to show a woman when he loves her.

This I say of me, but think of you, Love! This to you yourself my moon of poets! Ah, but that's the world's side there's the wonder

Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you.

There in turn I stand with them and praise

you,

Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. But the best is when I glide from out

them,

Would it might tarry like his, the beauțiful building of mine,

This which my keys in a crowd press'd and importun'd to raise !

Ah, one and all, how they help'd, would dispart now and now combine, Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise!

And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell,

Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things,

In sight? Not half! for it seem'd it was certain, to match man's birth, Nature in turn conceiv'd, obeying an impulse as I ;

And the emulous heaven yearn'd down, made effort to reach the earth,

As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky : Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine,

Not a point nor peak but found, but fix'd its wandering star;

Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine,

For earth had attain'd to heaven, there was no more near nor far.

Nay more ; for there wanted not who walk'd in the glare and glow,

Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast,

Furnish'd for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow,

Lur'd now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last ;

Or else the wonderful Dead who have pass'd through the body and gone, But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new : What never had been, was now; what was as it shall be anon;

And what is, shall I say, match'd both? for I was made perfect too.

bas'd me my palace well, Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs.

And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was,

Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, Raising my rampir'd walls of gold as transparent as glass,

Eager to do and die, yield each his place

to the rest:

to a wish of my soul,

All through my soul that prais'd as its wish flow'd visibly forth,

All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole,

Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth. Had I written the same, made verse

still, effect proceeds from cause, Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told

It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws,

Painter and poet are proud, in the artistlist enroll'd:

But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can,

Existent behind all laws: that made them, and, lo, they are!

And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allow'd to man,

That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star.

Consider it well each tone of our scale in itself is nought;

It is everywhere in the world — loud, soft, and all is said:

Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in

my thought,

And, there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head!

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I rear'd;

Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow;

For one is assur'd at first, one scarce can say that he fear'd,

That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go.

Never to be again! But many more of the kind

As good, nay, better perchance is this your comfort to me?

To me, who must be sav'd because I cling with my mind

To the same, same self, same love, same God ay, what was, shall be.

THOU whom these eyes saw never, say friends true,

Who say my soul, help'd onward by my song,

and forbore,

And bade me creep past.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like

my peers

The heroes of old,

too?

I gave but of the little that I knew :
How were the gift requited, while along
Life's path I pace, couldst thou make
weakness strong,

Help me with knowledge

arrears

Of pain, darkness and cold.

For sudden the worst turns the best to the

brave,

The black minute 's at end,

for Life 's old. Death's new!

MUCKLE-MOUTH MEG1

that rave,

Shall dwindle, shall blend,

Shall change, shall become first a peace out

of pain.

Then a light, then thy breast,

O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee

again,