You understand me: I'm a beast, I know. But see, now — why, I see as certainly As that the morning-star's about to shine, What will hap some day. We've a youngster here
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! 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 power, The shapes of things, their colors, lights and shades, Changes, surprises,— and God made it all!
— For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no, For this fair town's face, yonder river's line, The mountain round it and the sky above, Much more the figures of man, woman, child,
These are the frame to? What's it all about? 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 To let a truth slip. Do n't object, “His works Are here already; nature is complete:
Suppose you reproduce her ( which you can n't ) There's no advantage! you must beat her, then.” For, do n't you mark? we're made so that we love First when we see them painted, things we have passed
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; And so they are better, painted — better to us, Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; God uses us to help each other so,
Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now, Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk, And trust me but you should, though! How much more, 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 do n'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 What need of art at all? A skull and bones, Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best,
A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. I painted a Saint Laurence six months since At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style: " How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?”
I ask a brother: “Hugely,” he returns — “Already not one phiz of your three slaves Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content,
The pious people have so eased their own With coming to say prayers there in a rage: We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. Expect another job this time next year,
For pity and religion grow i’ the crowd — Your painting serves its purpose! Hang the fools! — That is — you'll not mistake an idle word Spoke in a huff by a poor monk. God wot,
Tasting the air this spicy night which turns The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! Oh, the church knows! do n't misreport me, now! It's natural a poor monk out of bounds
Should have his apt word to excuse himself: And hearken how I plot to make amends. I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece ... There's for you! Give me six months, then go, see
Something in Sant’ Ambrogio's! Bless the nuns! They want a cast o’ my office. I shall paint God in the midst. Madonna and her babe, Ringed by a bowery flowery angel-brood,
Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet As puff on puff of grated orris-root When ladies crowd to Church at midsummer. And then i’ the front, of course a saint or two —
Saint John, because he saves the Florentines, Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white The convent's friends and gives them a long day, And Job, I must have him there past mistake,
The man of Uz ( and Us without the z, Painters who need his patience ). Well, all these 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! Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape?
Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing Forward, puts out a soft palm — “Not so fast!” — Addresses the celestial presence, “nay — He made you and devised you, after all,
Though he's none of you! Could Saint John there draw — His camel-hair make up a painting-brush? We come to brother Lippo for all that, Iste perfecit opus.” So, all smile —
I shuffle sideways with my blushing face Under the cover of a hundred wings Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut,
Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off To some safe bench behind, not letting go The palm of her, the little lily thing
That spoke the good word for me in the nick, Like the Prior's niece... Saint Lucy, I would say. And so all's saved for me, and for the church A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence!
Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights! The street's hushed, and I know my own way back, Do n't fear me! There's the gray beginning. Zooks!
Cookies on Poetry Cove