Their nomenclature and philosophy :
He said true things, but called them by wrong names. "On the whole," he thought, "I justify myself On every point where cavillers like this
Oppugn my life: he tries one kind of fence ·
I close he's worsted, that's enough for him; He's on the ground! if the ground should break away I take my stand on, there's a firmer yet Beneath it, both of us may sink and reach.
His ground was over mine and broke the first. So let him sit with me this many a year!"
He did not sit five minutes. Just a week
Sufficed his sudden healthy vehemence. (Something had struck him in the "Outward-bound" Another way than Blougram's purpose was) And having bought, not cabin-furniture But settler's-implements (enough for three) And started for Australia there, I hope, By this time he has tested his first plough, And studied his last chapter of St. John.
AI, 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!
But you were living before that, And you are living after,
And the memory I started at
My starting moves your laughter!
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 -
For there I picked up on the heather
And there I put inside my breast A moulted feather, an eagle-feather Well, I forget the rest.
(6 (CALLED THE FAULTLESS PAINTER."}
BUT do not let us quarrel any more,
No, my Lucrezia; 'bear with me for once : Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. You turn your face, but does it bring your heart? I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear, Treat his own subject after his own way, Fix his own time, accept too his own price, And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. 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 And look a half hour forth on Fiesole, Both of one mind, as married people use, Quietly, quietly, the evening through, I might get up to-morrow to my work Cheerful and fresh as ever. 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.
Don't count the time lost, either; you must serve For each of the five pictures we require
It saves a model. So! keep looking so My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! How could you ever prick those perfect ears, Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet My face, my moon, my everybody's moon, Which everybody looks on and calls his, And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn,
While she looks no one's very dear, no less! You smile? why, there 's my picture ready made. There's what we painters call our harmony! A common grayness silvers every thing, — All in a twilight, you and I alike
— 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 ; That length of convent-wall across the way Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease And autumn grows, autumn in every thing. Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape As if I saw alike my work and self 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!
This chamber for example turn your head All that's behind us! you don't understand Nor care to understand about my art,
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, What I see, what at bottom of my heart
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep - Do easily, too when I say perfectly I do not boast, perhaps yourself are judge Who listened to the Legate's talk last week, And just as much they used to say in France. At any rate 'tis easy, all of it,
No sketches first, no studies, that's long past I do what many dream of all their lives
Dream? strive to do, and agonize to dɔ, 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.
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