Selected Poems (Penguin Classics) Read online

  In, as far as the point could go –

  [20] Not to our ingle, though,

  Where we loved each the other so!

  IV

  Laughs with so little cause!

  We devised games out of straws.

  We would try and trace

  One another’s face

  In the ash, as an artist draws;

  Free on each other’s flaws,

  How we chattered like two church daws!

  V

  What’s in the ‘Times’? – a scold

  [30] At the Emperor deep and cold;

  He has taken a bride

  To his gruesome side,

  That’s as fair as himself is bold:

  There they sit ermine-stoled,

  And she powders her hair with gold.

  VI

  Fancy the Pampas’ sheen!

  Miles and miles of gold and green

  Where the sunflowers blow

  In a solid glow,

  [40] And – to break now and then the screen –

  Black neck and eyeballs keen,

  Up a wild horse leaps between!

  VII

  Try, will our table turn?

  Lay your hands there light, and yearn

  Till the yearning slips

  Through the finger-tips

  In a fire which a few discern,

  And a very few feel burn,

  And the rest, they may live and learn!

  VIII

  [50] Then we would up and pace,

  For a change, about the place,

  Each with arm o’er neck:

  ’Tis our quarter-deck,

  We are seamen in woeful case.

  Help in the ocean-space!

  Or, if no help, we’ll embrace.

  IX

  See, how she looks now, dressed

  In a sledging-cap and vest!

  ’Tis a huge fur cloak –

  [60] Like a reindeer’s yoke

  Falls the lappet along the breast:

  Sleeves for her arms to rest,

  Or to hang, as my Love likes best.

  X

  Teach me to flirt a fan

  As the Spanish ladies can,

  Or I tint your lip

  With a burnt stick’s tip

  And you turn into such a man!

  Just the two spots that span

  [70] Half the bill of the young male swan.

  XI

  Dearest, three months ago

  When the mesmerizer Snow

  With his hand’s first sweep

  Put the earth to sleep:

  ’Twas a time when the heart could show

  All – how was earth to know,

  ’Neath the mute hand’s to-and-fro?

  XII

  Dearest, three months ago

  When we loved each other so,

  [80] Lived and loved the same

  Till an evening came

  When a shaft from the devil’s bow

  Pierced to our ingle-glow,

  And the friends were friend and foe!

  XIII

  Not from the heart beneath –

  ’Twas a bubble born of breath,

  Neither sneer nor vaunt,

  Nor reproach nor taunt.

  See a word, how it severeth!

  [90] Oh, power of life and death

  In the tongue, as the Preacher saith!

  XIV

  Woman, and will you cast

  For a word, quite off at last

  Me, your own, your You, –

  Since, as truth is true,

  I was You all the happy past –

  Me do you leave aghast

  With the memories We amassed?

  XV

  Love, if you knew the light

  [100] That your soul casts in my sight,

  How I look to you

  For the pure and true

  And the beauteous and the right, –

  Bear with a moment’s spite

  When a mere mote threats the white!

  XVI

  What of a hasty word?

  Is the fleshly heart not stirred

  By a worm’s pin-prick

  Where its roots are quick?

  [110] See the eye, by a fly’s foot blurred –

  Ear, when a straw is heard

  Scratch the brain’s coat of curd!

  XVII

  Foul be the world or fair

  More or less, how can I care?

  ’Tis the world the same

  For my praise or blame,

  And endurance is easy there.

  Wrong in the one thing rare –

  Oh, it is hard to bear!

  XVIII

  [120] Here’s the spring back or close,

  When the almond-blossom blows:

  We shall have the word

  In a minor third

  There is none but the cuckoo knows:

  Heaps of the guelder-rose!

  I must bear with it, I suppose.

  XIX

  Could but November come,

  Were the noisy birds struck dumb

  At the warning slash

  [130] Of his driver’s-lash –

  I would laugh like the valiant Thumb

  Facing the castle glum

  And the giant’s fee-faw-fum!

  XX

  Then, were the world well stripped

  Of the gear wherein equipped

  We can stand apart,

  Heart dispense with heart

  In the sun, with the flowers unnipped, –

  Oh, the world’s hangings ripped,

  [140] We were both in a bare-walled crypt!

  XXI

  Each in the crypt would cry

  ‘But one freezes here! and why?

  When a heart, as chill,

  At my own would thrill

  Back to life, and its fires out-fly?

  Heart, shall we live or die?

  The rest, … settle by-and-by!’

  XXII

  So, she’d efface the score,

  And forgive me as before.

  [150] It is twelve o’clock:

  I shall hear her knock

  In the worst of a storm’s uproar,

  I shall pull her through the door,

  I shall have her for evermore!

  Up at a Villa – Down in the City

  (As Distinguished by an Italian Person of Quality)

  I

  Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare,

  The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square;

  Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!

  II

  Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least!

  There, the whole day long, one’s life is a perfect feast;

  While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.

  III

  Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull

  Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature’s skull,

  Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull!

  [10] – I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair’s turned wool.

  IV

  But the city, oh the city – the square with the houses! Why?

  They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there’s something to take the eye!

  Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry;

  You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by;

  Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high;

  And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.

  V

  What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights,

  ’Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights:

  You’ve the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze,

  [20] And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint grey olive-trees.
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br />   VI

  Is it better in May, I ask you? You’ve summer all at once;

  In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns.

  ’Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well,

  The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell

  Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.

  VII

  Is it ever hot in the square? There’s a fountain to spout and splash!

  In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flash

  On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash

  Round the lady atop in her conch – fifty gazers do not abash,

  [30] Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash.

  VIII

  All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger,

  Except yon cypress that points like death’s lean lifted forefinger.

  Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i’ the corn and mingle,

  Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle.

  Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill,

  And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill.

  Enough of the seasons, – I spare you the months of the fever and chill.

  IX

  Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin:

  No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in:

  [40] You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin.

  By-and-by there’s the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth;

  Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath.

  At the post-office such a scene-picture – the new play, piping hot!

  And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot.

  Above it, behold the Archbishop’s most fatherly of rebukes,

  And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke’s!

  Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so

  Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome and Cicero,

  ‘And moreover,’ (the sonnet goes rhyming,) ‘the skirts of Saint Paul has reached,

  [50] Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached.’

  Noon strikes, – here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart

  With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart!

  Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife;

  No keeping one’s haunches still: it’s the greatest pleasure in life.

  X

  But bless you, it’s dear – it’s dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate.

  They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate

  It’s a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city!

  Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still – ah, the pity, the pity!

  Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals,

  [60] And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles;

  One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles,

  And the Duke’s guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals:

  Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife.

  Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

  Fra Lippo Lippi

  I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave!

  You need not clap your torches to my face.

  Zooks, what’s to blame? you think you see a monk!

  What, ’tis past midnight, and you go the rounds,

  And here you catch me at an alley’s end

  Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar?

  The Carmine’s my cloister: hunt it up,

  Do, – harry out, if you must show your zeal,

  Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole,

  [10] And nip each softling of a wee white mouse,

  Weke, weke, that’s crept to keep him company!

  Aha, you know your betters! Then, you’ll take

  Your hand away that’s fiddling on my throat,

  And please to know me likewise. Who am I?

  Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend

  Three streets off – he’s a certain … how d’ye call?

  Master – a … Cosimo of the Medici,

  I’ the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best!

  Remember and tell me, the day you’re hanged,

  [20] How you affected such a gullet’s-gripe!

  But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves

  Pick up a manner nor discredit you:

  Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets

  And count fair prize what comes into their net?

  He’s Judas to a tittle, that man is!

  Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends.

  Lord, I’m not angry! Bid your hangdogs go

  Drink out this quarter-florin to the health

  Of the munificent House that harbours me

  [30] (And many more beside, lads! more beside!)

  And all’s come square again. I’d like his face –

  His, elbowing on his comrade in the door

  With the pike and lantern, – for the slave that holds

  John Baptist’s head a-dangle by the hair

  With one hand (‘Look you, now,’ as who should say)

  And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped!

  It’s not your chance to have a bit of chalk,

  A wood-coal or the like? or you should see!

  Yes, I’m the painter, since you style me so.

  [40] What, brother Lippo’s doings, up and down,

  You know them and they take you? like enough!

  I saw the proper twinkle in your eye –

  ’Tell you, I liked your looks at very first.

  Let’s sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch.

  Here’s spring come, and the nights one makes up bands

  To roam the town and sing out carnival,

  And I’ve been three weeks shut within my mew,

  A-painting for the great man, saints and saints

  And saints again. I could not paint all night –

  [50] Out! I leaned out of window for fresh air.

  There came a hurry of feet and little feet,

  A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song, –

  Flower o’ the broom,

  Take away love, and our earth is a tomb!

  Flower o’ the quince,

  I let Lisa go, and what good in life since?

  Flower o’ the thyme – and so on. Round they went.

  Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter

  Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight, – three slim shapes,

  [60] And a face that looked up … zooks, sir, flesh and blood,

  That’s all I’m made of! Into shreds it went,

  Curtain and counterpane and coverlet,

  All the bed-furniture – a dozen knots,

  There was a ladder! Down I let myself,

  Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped,

  And after them. I came up with the fun

  Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met, –

  Flower o’ the rose,

  If I’ve been merry, what matter who knows?

  [70] And so as I was stealing back again

  To get to bed and have a bit of sleep

  Ere I rise up tomorrow and go work

  On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast

  With his great round stone to subdue the flesh,

  You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see!

  Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head –

  Mine�
�s shaved – a monk, you say – the sting’s in that!

  If Master Cosimo announced himself,

  Mum’s the word naturally; but a monk!

  [80] Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now!

  I was a baby when my mother died

  And father died and left me in the street.

  I starved there, God knows how, a year or two

  On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks,

  Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day,

  My stomach being empty as your hat,

  The wind doubled me up and down I went.

  Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand,

  (Its fellow was a stinger as I knew)

  [90] And so along the wall, over the bridge,

  By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there,

  While I stood munching my first bread that month:

  ‘So, boy, you’re minded,’ quoth the good fat father

  Wiping his own mouth, ’twas refection-time, –

  ‘To quit this very miserable world?

  Will you renounce’ … ‘the mouthful of bread?’ thought I;

  By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me;

  I did renounce the world, its pride and greed,

  Palace, farm, villa, shop and banking-house,

  [100] Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici

  Have given their hearts to – all at eight years old.

  Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure,

  ’Twas not for nothing – the good bellyful,

  The warm serge and the rope that goes all round,

  And day-long blessed idleness beside!

  ‘Let’s see what the urchin’s fit for’ – that came next.

  Not overmuch their way, I must confess.

  Such a to-do! They tried me with their books:

  Lord, they’d have taught me Latin in pure waste!

  [110] Flower o’ the clove,

  All the Latin I construe is, ‘amo’ I love!

  But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets

  Eight years together, as my fortune was,

  Watching folk’s faces to know who will fling

  The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires,

  And who will curse or kick him for his pains, –

  Which gentleman processional and fine,

  Holding a candle to the Sacrament,

  Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch

  [120] The droppings of the wax to sell again,

  Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped, –

  How say I? – nay, which dog bites, which lets drop

  His bone from the heap of offal in the street, –

  Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike,

  He learns the look of things, and none the less

  For admonition from the hunger-pinch.

  I had a store of such remarks, be sure,

  Which, after I found leisure, turned to use.