'There it is!– You play beside a death-bed like a child, Yet measure to yourself a prophet's place To teach the living. None of all these things, Can women understand. You generalise, Oh, nothing!–not even grief! Your quick-breathed hearts, So sympathetic to the personal pang,
He saw her from the bottom of the stairs Before she saw him. She was starting down, Looking back over her shoulder at some fear. She took a doubtful step and then undid it To raise herself and look again. He spoke Advancing toward her: ‘What is it you see From up there always—for I want to know.’ She turned and sank upon her skirts at that, And her face changed from terrified to dull. He said to gain time: ‘What is it you see,’ Mounting until she cowered under him. ‘I will find out now—you must tell me, dear.’ She, in her place, refused him any help With the least stiffening of her neck and silence. She let him look, sure that he wouldn’t see,
Deflores. What makes your lip so strange? This must not be betwixt us. Beatrice. The man talks wildly. Deflores. Come kisse me with a zeal now. Beatrice. Heaven I doubt him. Deflores. I will not stand so long to beg 'em shortly. Beatrice. Take heed Deflores of forgetfulness, 'twill soon betray us. Deflores. Take you heed first; Faith y'are grown much forgetfull, y'are to blame in't. Beatrice. He's bold, and I am blam'd for't. Deflores. I have eas'd you of your trouble, think on't, I'me in pain, And must be as'd of ou; 'tis a charity, Justice invites your blood to understand me. Beatrice. I dare not. Deflores. Quickly. Beatrice. Oh I never shall, speak if yet further of that I may lose
Under the separated leaves of shade Of the gingko, that old tree That has existed essentially unchanged Longer than any other living tree, I walk behind a woman. Her hair's coarse gold Is spun from the sunlight that it rides upon. Women were paid to knit from sweet champagne Her second skin: it winds and unwinds, winds
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,
Rome, 15— Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews—sons mine . . . ah God, I know not! Well— She, men would have to be your mother once,
I. FRIENDS of faces unknown and a land Unvisited over the sea, Who tell me how lonely you stand With a single gold curl in the hand Held up to be looked at by me, —
Comment form: