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

The droppings of the wax to sell again, 120 Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped,

Joined legs and arms to the long musicnotes,

Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's,

And made a string of pictures of the world Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black.

"Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d'ye say?

In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark. What if at last we get our man of parts, We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine

140

And put the front on it that ought to be!" And hereupon he bade me daub away. Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank,

Never was such prompt disemburdening. First, every sort of monk, the black and white,

I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church,

From good old gossips waiting to confess Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle

ends,

Comes to our convent, studies what I do, Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: His name is Guidi - he'll not mind the monks

They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk

He picks my practice up-he'll paint apace,

I hope so-though I never live so long, I know what's sure to follow. You be judge! 280

You speak no Latin more than I, belike; However, you 're my man, you've seen the world

- The beauty and the wonder and the

To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon, Wondered at? oh, this last of course! - you

say.

But why not do as well as say, - paint these Just as they are, careless what comes of it? God's works- paint any one, and count it crime

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If I drew higher things with the same truth!
That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place,
Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh,
It makes me mad to see what men shall do
And we in our graves! This world's no
blot for us,

Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good:

To find its meaning is my meat and drink. "Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!" Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning's plain

It does not say to folk-remember matins, Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why,

for this

Secured at their devotion, up shall come
Out of a corner when you least expect,
As one by a dark stair into a great light,
Music and talking, who but Lippo! I!
Mazed, motionless, and moonstruck - I'm
the man!

Back I shrink-what is this I see and hear?

I, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake,

My old serge gown and rope that goes all

round,

I, in this presence, this pure company!