-- 3. ah, thought which saddens while it soothes: the thought saddens him that he has not realized his capabilities, and soothes him that he has resisted the temptations to earthly fame, and been true to his soul.
14-22. he could have expressed Hope, Rapture, Confidence, and all other passions, in the human face, each clear proclaimed without a tongue.
23. hath it spilt, my cup?: the cup of his memory.
24. What did ye give me that I have not saved?: he has retained all the impressions he has received from human faces.
25 et seq.: Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well I have dreamed!) of going forth in each new picture, as it went to Pope or Kaiser, etc., making new hearts beat and bosoms swell.
34. the star not yet distinct above his hair: his fame not having yet shone brightly out; “his” refers to “youth”.
41. But a voice changed it: the voice of his secret soul.
67. travertine: coating of lime; properly a limestone. Lat., ‘lapis Tiburtinus’, found near Tibur, now Tivoli.
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! { 10} 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! { 20} Your soft hand is a woman of itself, And mine, the man’s bared breast she curls inside. Don’t count the time lost, neither; 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, { 30} 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, That’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. { 40} 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; { 50} 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, { 60} 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 do, { 70} 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, Someone says, (I know his name, no matter)--so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. There burns a truer light of God in them, In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, { 80} Heart, or whate’er else, than goes on to prompt This low-pulsed forthright craftsman’s hand of mine.