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That's a new question ; still replies the fact,
Nothing endures : the wind moans, saying so;
Perhaps probation-do I know?
On his soul's hands' palms one fair good wise thing Just as he grasped it! For himself, death's wave;
While time first washes-ah, the sting !O'er all he'd sink to save.
VII. Among the Rocks OH, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, U This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth;
Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;
Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. If you loved only what were worth your love, Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:
Make the low nature better by your throes!
VIII. Beside the Drawing Board
A Whoever said that foolish thing,
The counsels of God in fashioning,
“As like as a Hand to another Hand":
Found and followed, like me, an hour,
Drew and learned, and looked again,
Its beauty mounted into my brain,
And a fancy seized me; I was fain To efface my work, begin anew, Kiss what before I only drew; Ay, laying the red chalk 'twixt my lips, With soul to help if the mere lips failed,
I kissed all right where the drawing ailed, Kissed fast the grace that somehow slips Still from one's soulless finger-tips. 'Tis a clay cast, the perfect thing,
From Hand live once, dead long ago: Princess-like it wears the ring
To fancy's eye, by which we know That here at length a master found
His match, a proud lone soul its mate,
And pencil could not emulate
Drew and learned and loved again,
Till beauty mounted into his brain And on the finger which outvied
His art he placed the ring that 's there, Still by fancy's eye descried,
In token of a marriage rare:
For him on earth, his art's despair, For him in heaven, his soul's fit bride.
Little girl with the poor coarse hand
I turned from to a cold clay castI have my lesson, understand
The worth of flesh and blood at last. Nothing but beauty in a Hand?
Because he could not change the hue, Mend the lines and make them true To this which met his soul's demand,
Would Da Vinci turn from you? I hear him laugh my woes to scorn“The fool forsooth is all forlorn “ Because the beauty, she thinks best, “Lived long ago or was never born,“Because no beauty bears the test "In this rough peasant Hand! Confessed! “Art is null and study void!'
“So sayest thou? So said not I,
“Who threw the faulty pencil by, " And years instead of hours employed, “Learning the veritable use
“Of flesh and bone and nerve beneath
“Lines and hue of the outer sheath, “If haply I might reproduce “One motive of the powers profuse, “ Flesh and bone and nerve that make
“The poorest coarsest human hand
“An object worthy to be scanned “A whole life long for their sole sake. “Shall earth and the cramped moment-space “Yield the heavenly crowning grace? “Now the parts and then the whole! “Who art thou, with stinted soul
“And stunted body, thus to cry “I love,-shall that be life's strait dole?
"I must live beloved or die!' “This peasant hand that spins the wool
“And bakes the bread, why lives it on, “Poor and coarse with beauty gone,
“What use survives the beauty?" Fool! Go, little girl with the poor coarse hand! I have my lesson, shall understand.
IX. On Deck
1 Nothing I ever said with a grace, Nothing I did that you care to see,
Nothing I was that deserves a place
Such things have been as a mutual flame,
You might let it loose, till I grew the same In your eyes, as in mine you stand: strange plea! For then, then, what would it matter to me
That I was the harsh ill-favoured one?
It was ever so since the world begun:
As I have all you in my heart and brain,
Who never lifted the hand in vain-
Rose like your own face present now,
Much such a mouth, and as bright a brow, Till you saw yourself, while you cried, “'Tis She!" Well, you may, you must, set down to me
Love that was life, life that was love; A tenure of breath at your lips' decree,
A passion to stand as your thoughts approve, A rapture to fall where your foot might be.
But did one touch of such love for me
Come in a word or a look of yours, Whose words and looks will, circling, flee
Round me and round while life endures, Could I fancy “As I feel, thus feels he"; Why, fade you might to a thing like me,
And your hair grow these coarse hanks of hair, Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree,
You might turn myself !should I know or care When I should be dead of joy, James Lee?
A Story of Pornic OH, the beautiful girl, too white,
Who lived at Pornic, down by the sea,
And a boasted name in Brittany
Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen
To just see earth, and hardly be seen,
One grace that grew to its full on earth : Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare,
And her waist want half a girdle's girth,
Freshness and fragrance-floods of it, too!
Here, Life smiled, “Think what I meant to do!" And Love sighed, “Fancy my loss!"