University of Virginia Library

O Gaddi, ope the casement, open wide
And prop my pillow. But the window square
Of light, of sky! tho' skies of Sicily
Are not Firenze's. Ah, Firenze mine!
Darkly I feel how's wasting all my life
And dulls my brain; Death 's guessing at my name.
But utter strange it is to die. The word
“Life” to my ear rings mournful-rich and stings
The sleepy nerve of longing. This is pain—
To stifle far from home, the heart suppressed
By a handful of such years as other men
Make nought of. Mercy of God, what mother e'er
Fashioned a heart so brittle, a head and brain
Whereof the tissues crack with fever? Why
Live? to have tasted life?—and die of 't! aye,
'T was little more.
The silly, silly tears.
But Gaddi, look, my head, my arm! Indeed
Think you that I revive? Meseemeth now
The Spring should soften Fiesole to flower
And Colli meadows show to every wind
New petals of anemony. How often
By the divine immemorable days,
By sober afterlight when marvel is
And all Firenze turns a smouldering gold—
How oft upon the hillside have we heard
The melancholy ritornello! Ah
What Springs were they! Tell me if ever, since,
The night was moonful, or a woman's eye
Tearfully asked a softer question?
How waved the paling heaven's embroidery,
What wonder woke the odoured bloom of earth,
What music had the tongue of Tuscany,
What rhymes! How large a burial is the Past!

And thence away to Rome, to sovran Rome.
What were the sickly earth without its Rome,
Its gorgeous city where the revels are,
Dice and cards and the old ecstatic wine
That glints dark ruby, and superbly eyed
The rich and unimpassioned courtesans,
And Leo, Pope—
Yes, listen. One great once
I saw the heavenly Householder, but far
From 's home. Come nearer, Gaddi, hist! Ye know
The Morosina who has Italia's hair,
Whose eye is somewhat strangely more than blue,
Who laughs like beech-leaves ringing in the light;
Her kisses indolent as a warm rain. ...
I dream. The Pope said I? 'T was winter night.
The wind fell edged and pointed down the lane
Beneath the casement many have looked to, where
Stood I, whistling a feverish tune. And straight
'T was oped. I entered. All about mine ear
I heard “My Lodovico,”—such a sound
Became the long and melancholy name!
I drew my mask, and darkly there I saw—
Nothing, but felt and breathèd veriest Heaven.
About our kiss did move her tender hair.
Her breast to mine, her living arms, her brow—
The memory aches me that it is so dead.
She led me with a touch like melody
That being fore'er more forward in the air
Still guides. The cold and archèd corridor
We traversed, I a dreamer sunsetwards
And she the moving beauty of the day.
We climbed the stair, a sick moon-gazer I
Beneath her white and spirit-wingèd moon:
Till in her chamber with our eyes we lit
The owlish gloom about her tapestry.
Upon his horse the hunter moved asleep
And every falcon turnèd owl. Alone
The cresset flickered on the fragrant oil,
Shedding an old small light. And she and I
We sung the night with kisses low adream.
She said the wonder things in olden words;
She made a music languorous as Time
And rich as Summer, whilst her endless hair
Seemed Aphrodite's o'er the shallow wave
Thin-spread at midday. Odour never rose
Sweet as her breasts', and musically she
Did often turn her golden head away
That gazing I might weave and weave my soul
Into a necklace stringed of sleepy pearl
Without a clasp.—
But then befell the thing.
Methought I heard, I heard indeed a door
Noising—and near. I threw'r aside. “By Christ,
A snare! now bless me—where 's my sword? my mask?”
“I love thy soul,” she sang. “Is 't Bembo?” “No.”
“The whorish trade!” Her shaking hand she put
In mine. The step grew living near. I drew.
Then most superbly on the threshold poised
An all-black cavalier, save in the mask
Two fires. “By Venus,” quoth, “a lady 's here
That loves too widely to love well. Good sir,
Suppose—” “A sword 's enough for courtesy.”
He drew a wonder of Toledo blade
That rang like music. Masterly we fenced
And plied our gallant art Italian,
Till on a sudden her most delirious form
Rushed with a cry betwixt us. But she fell
Half-sensed. We moved. Then with an elfish pass
I pierced his hand. The weapon fell to ground,—
And he was flying,—but next about his waist
Her tender arms imploring pardon clung.
He struggled, stumbled, fell; the mask removed;
By Jesu God in Heaven, verily I
Then saw great Leo's face, the Pope's of Rome.
I shuddered as a reed, my brain rocked, all
Withered together crumbling in my soul:
I fled, yet with a backward look to see
The mistress of the gods make of her hair,
Her golden hair, a Pontiff's chasuble.—
Dost thou believe I'm dying of darkish things,
Of poison—?
Ah, my heart 's a crust of ash.
And glowing chains are piled about my head.
Raving? Not I. Give me no drugs. The world
I charioted have left in dust behind.
For I was Poet.—They said, they said “A soft
Poet, who stole Petrarca's melodies
And spoiled his robbery.” Soft in verse I was,
A master had I like, forsooth, the rest. ...
But nothing timeless said! Full well I know't,
The shaft is on my heart's bow, poised, unloosed!
While Raphael delves a ceiling into skies
Peopling his coloured thought, and Agnolo
Makes the fresh-quarried adamant to sweat
Ferocious agony, or in peace reclined
To look long looks abroad the shifting world.
I? why, I'd sing for them, I Lodovico
Martelli. I would send my songs full-sailed
Over the waves and waters of the years.
Let them be painter, sculptor: poet, I.
For your unquiet thoughts, the horrid strong,
I have them,—writ? not yet! but here 's my heart,
Feel it! so tramped the innumerable host
When Rome was burned. And very vast a tale
Were half its history. Often have I stood
On hills high up, by sorry coasts, alone
Passing my vision angrily. I thought
To have plucked the yellow comets by their hair,
To have braided meteors, and from 'hind the moon
Robbed her society of chanting tides.
I'd stand, my back to the seaward cliffs, at bay
And fight the wave. Completed earth 's a leaf
Turning in space along with the other dust
That blinds the eye of God.
Away, away!
Canst see the waters from the window? Help,
Help, sir. I've clomb Vesuvius of old,
Tasting its breath—'t was half so steep. Behold,
Yon rolls in wide and worldly rhythm the sea,
Greatest and eldest poet. Yonder chants
The epic wave in rich monotony.
Mine eye seems big as heaven. And far abroad
From Even's distaff floats the purple wool.
Wet-eyed she sits; the light for love of her
Becomes a moon but to behold her die—
The moon—Firenze! Is Firenze near?
Methinks 't were half a journey.
Ah, but were we there!
How fresh her lip is graven on my heart.
I see her, palely. But—tell me, who knows—
Is she not waxen, like me, somewhat old?
For something long has happened. All 's ago.
I was ages ago, and in the world
We were together young. Say, am I dead
That I'm so far? Perhaps shall I return.
Bid Laura wait for April; I return,
I that so endless loved her, love her. Say:
“Within the colour-cupped anemonies
Lieth his heart, and all the leaves are he.
The gentle ecstasy of earth, the wind
That lifts so happily thy hair is he,
And he the Spring that holds thee all about.”
O Gaddi, I shall not return. My mood
Is his who sits upon a farther shore,
Waiting and sick.
It's night and strangely cold.
To bed! 't is bitter cold. My very breast
Quivers. Hold me, good Gaddi,—or I shake
To death. My body 's dry. Christ, what a world!
Water, good soul, water! Hold thou the cup.