Men and Women

     Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles,
     Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea,
     And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece")—
     To Protus in his Tyranny: much health!

        They give thy letter to me, even now:
     I read and seem as if I heard thee speak.
     The master of thy galley still unlades
     Gift after gift; they block my court at last
     And pile themselves along its portico
     Royal with sunset, like a thought of thee:                 10
     And one white she-slave from the group dispersed
     Of black and white slaves (like the chequer-work
     Pavement, at once my nation's work and gift,
     Now covered with this settle-down of doves),
     One lyric woman, in her crocus vest
     Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands
     Commends to me the strainer and the cup
     Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine.

        Well-counselled, king, in thy munificence!
     For so shall men remark, in such an act                    20
     Of love for him whose song gives life its joy,
     Thy recognition of the use of life;
     Nor call thy spirit barely adequate
     To help on life in straight ways, broad enough
     For vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest.
     Thou, in the daily building of thy tower—
     Whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil,
     Or through dim lulls of unapparent growth,
     Or when the general work 'mid good acclaim
     Climbed with the eye to cheer the architect—              30
     Didst ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake—
     Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope
     Of some eventual rest a-top of it,
     Whence, all the tumult of the building hushed,
     Thou first of men mightst look out to the East:
     The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun.
     For this, I promise on thy festival
     To pour libation, looking o'er the sea,
     Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak
     Thy great words, and describe thy royal face—             40
     Wishing thee wholly where Zeus lives the most,
     Within the eventual element of calm.

        Thy letter's first requirement meets me here.
     It is as thou hast heard: in one short life
     I, Cleon, have effected all those things
     Thou wonderingly dost enumerate.
     That epos on thy hundred plates of gold
     Is mine—and also mine the little chant,
     So sure to rise from every fishing-bark
     When, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net.           50
     The image of the sun-god on the phare,
     Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine;
     The Poecile, o'er-storied its whole length,
     As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too.
     I know the true proportions of a man
     And woman also, not observed before;
     And I have written three books on the soul,
     Proving absurd all written hitherto,
     And putting us to ignorance again.
     For music—why, I have combined the moods,                 60
     Inventing one.  In brief, all arts are mine;
     Thus much the people know and  recognize,
     Throughout our seventeen islands.  Marvel not.
     We of these latter days, with greater mind
     Than our forerunners, since more composite,
     Look not so great, beside their simple way,
     To a judge who only sees one way at once,
     One mind-point and no other at a time—
     Compares the small part of a man of us
     With some whole man of the heroic age,                     70
     Great in his way—not ours, nor meant for ours.
     And ours is greater, had we skill to know:
     For, what we call this life of men on earth,
     This sequence of the soul's achievements here
     Being, as I find much reason to conceive,
     Intended to be viewed eventually.
     As a great whole, not analyzed to parts,
     But each part having reference to all—
     How shall a certain part, pronounced complete,
     Endure effacement by another part?                         80
     Was the thing done?—then, what's to do again?
     See, in the chequered pavement opposite,
     Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb,
     And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid—
     He did not overlay them, superimpose
     The new upon the old and blot it out,
     But laid them on a level in his work,
     Making at last a picture; there it lies.
     So, first the perfect separate forms were made,
     The portions of mankind; and after, so,                    90
     Occurred the combination of the same.
     For where had been a progress, otherwise?
     Mankind, made up of all the single men—
     In such a synthesis the labor ends.
     Now mark me! those divine men of old time
     Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point
     The outside verge that rounds our faculty;
     And where they reached, who can do more than reach?
     It takes but little water just to touch
     At some one point the inside of a sphere,                 100
     And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest
     In due succession: but the finer air
     Which not so palpably nor obviously,
     Though no less universally, can touch
     The whole circumference of that emptied sphere,
     Fills it more fully than the water did;
     Holds thrice the weight of water in itself
     Resolved into a subtler element.
     And yet the vulgar call the sphere first full
     Up to the visible height—and after, void;                110
     Not knowing air's more hidden properties.
     And thus our soul, misknown, cries out to Zeus
     To vindicate his purpose in our life:
     Why stay we on the earth unless to grow?
     Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out,
     That he or other god descended here
     And, once for all, showed simultaneously
     What, in its nature, never can be shown,
     Piecemeal or in succession;—showed, I say,
     The worth both absolute and relative                      120
     Of all his children from the birth of time,
     His instruments for all appointed work.
     I now go on to image—might we hear
     The judgment which should give the due to each,
     Show where the labor lay and where the ease,
     And prove Zeus' self, the latent everywhere!
     This is a dream;—but no dream, let us hope,
     That years and days, the summers and the springs,
     Follow each other with unwaning powers.
     The grapes which dye thy wine are richer far,             130
     Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock;
     The wave plum than the savage-tasted drupe;
     The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet;
     The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers;
     That young and tender crescent-moon, thy slave,
     Sleeping above her robe as buoyed by clouds,
     Refines upon the women of my youth.
     What, and the soul alone deteriorates?
     I have not chanted verse like Homer, no—
     Nor swept string like Terpander, no—nor carved           140
     And painted men like Phidias and his friend;
     I am not great as they are, point by point.
     But I have entered into sympathy
     With these four, running these into one soul,
     Who, separate, ignored each other's art.
     Say, is it nothing that I know them all?
     The wild flower was the larger; I have dashed
     Rose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup's
     Honey with  wine, and driven its seed to fruit,
     And show a better flower if not so large:                 150
     I stand myself.  Refer this to the gods
     Whose gift alone it is! which, shall I dare
     (All pride apart) upon the absurd pretext
     That such a gift by chance lay in my hand,
     Discourse of lightly or depreciate?
     It might have fallen to another's hand: what then?
     I pass too surely: let at least truth stay!

        And next, of what thou followest on to ask.
     This being with me as I declare, 0 king,
     My works, in all these varicolored kinds,                 160
     So done by me, accepted so by men—
     Thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's hearts)
     I must not be accounted to attain
     The very crown and proper end of life?
     Inquiring thence how, now life closeth up,
     I face death with success in my right hand:
     Whether I fear death less than dost thyself
     The fortunate of men?  "For" (writest thou)
     "Thou leavest much behind, while I leave naught.
     Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing,               170
     The pictures men shall study; while my life,
     Complete and whole now in its power and joy,
     Dies altogether with my brain and arm,
     Is lost indeed; since, what survives myself?
     The brazen statue to o'erlook my grave,
     See on the promontory which I named.
     And that—some supple courtier of my heir
     Shall use its robed and sceptred arm, perhaps,
     To fix the rope to, which best drags it down.
     I go then: triumph thou, who dost not go!"                180

       Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind.
     Is this apparent, when thou turn'st to muse
     Upon the scheme of earth and man in chief,
     That admiration grows as knowledge grows?
     That imperfection means perfection hid,
     Reserved in part, to grace the after-time?
     If, in the morning of philosophy,
     Ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived,
     Thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have looked
     On all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird,               190
     Ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage—
     Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deduced
     The perfectness of others yet unseen.
     Conceding which—had Zeus then questioned thee
     "Shall I go on a step, improve on this,
     Do more for visible creatures than is done?"
     Thou wouldst have answered, "Ay, by making each
     Grow conscious in himself—by that alone.
     All's perfect else: the shell sucks fast the rock,
     The fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims    200
     And slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight,
     Till life's mechanics can no further go—
     And all this joy in natural life is put
     Like fire from off thy finger into each,
     So exquisitely perfect is the same.
     But 't is pure fire, and they mere matter are;
     It has them, not they it: and so I choose
     For man, thy last premeditated work
     (If I might add a glory to the scheme)
     That a third thing should stand apart from both,          210
     A quality arise within his soul,
     Which, intro-active, made to supervise
     And feel the force it has, may view itself,
     And so be happy."  Man might live at first
     The animal life: but is there nothing more?
     In due time, let him critically learn
     How he lives; and, the more he gets to know
     Of his own life's adaptabilities,
     The more joy-giving will his life become.
     Thus man, who hath this quality, is best.                 220

        But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said:
     "Let progress end at once—man make no step
     Beyond the natural man, the better beast,
     Using his senses, not the sense of sense."
     In man there's failure, only since he left
     The lower and inconscious forms of life.
     We called it an advance, the rendering plain
     Man's spirit might grow conscious of man's life,
     And, by new lore so added to the old,
     Take each step higher over the brute's head.              230
     This grew the only life, the pleasure-house,
     Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul,
     Which whole surrounding flats of natural life
     Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to;
     A tower that crowns a country.  But alas,
     The soul now climbs it just to perish there!
     For thence we  have discovered ('t is no dream—
     We know  this, which we had not else perceived)
     That there's a world of capability
     For joy, spread round about us, meant for us,             240
     Inviting us; and still the soul craves all,
     And still the flesh replies, "Take no jot more
     Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad!
     Nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought
     Deduction to it."  We struggle, fain to enlarge
     Our bounded physical recipiency,
     Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life,
     Repair the waste of age and sickness: no,
     It skills not! life's inadequate to joy,
     As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take.              250
     They praise a fountain in my garden here
     Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow
     Thin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise.
     What if I told her, it is just a thread
     From that great river which the hills shut up,
     And mock  her with my  leave to take the same?
     The artificer has given her one small tube
     Past power to widen or exchange—what boots
     To know she might spout oceans if she could?
     She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread;             260
     And so a man can use but a man's joy
     While he sees God's.  Is it for Zeus to boast,
     "See, man, how happy I live, and despair—
     That I may be still happier—for thy use!"
     If this were so, we could not thank our Lord,
     As hearts beat on to doing; 'tis not so—
     Malice it is not.  Is it carelessness?
     Still, no.  If care—where is the sign? I ask,
     And get no answer, and agree in sum,
     0 king, with thy profound discouragement,                 270
     Who seest the wider but to sigh the more.
     Most progress is most failure: thou sayest well.

       The last point now:—thou dost except a case—
     Holding joy not impossible to one
     With artist-gifts—to such a man as I
     Who leave behind me living works indeed;
     For, such a poem, such a painting lives.
     What? dost thou verily trip upon a word,
     Confound the accurate view of what joy is
     (Caught somewhat  clearer by my eyes than thine)          280
     With feeling joy? confound the knowing how
     And showing how to live (my faculty)
     With actually living?—Otherwise
     Where is the artist's vantage o'er the king?
     Because in my great epos I display
     How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act—
     Is this as though I acted? if I paint,
     Carve the young Phoebus, am I therefore young?
     Methinks I'm older that I bowed myself
     The many years of pain that taught me art!                290
     Indeed, to know is something, and to prove
     How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more;
     But, knowing naught, to enjoy is something too.
     Yon rower, with the moulded muscles there,
     Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I.
     I can write love-odes: thy fair slave's an ode.
     I get to sing of love, when grown too gray
     For being beloved: she turns to that young man,
     The muscles all a-ripple on his back.
     I know the joy of kingship: well, thou art king!          300

        "But," sayest thou—(and I marvel, I repeat,
     To find thee trip on such a mere word) "what
     Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die:
     Sappho survives, because we sing her songs,
     And AEschylus, because we read his plays!"
     Why, if they live still, let them come and take
     Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup,
     Speak in my place.  Thou diest while I survive?
     Say rather that my fate is deadlier still,
     In this, that every day my sense of joy                   310
     Grows more acute, my soul (intensified
     By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen;
     While every day my hairs fall more and more,
     My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase—
     The horror quickening still from year to year,
     The consummation coming past escape
     When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy—
     When all my works wherein I prove my worth,
     Being present still to mock me in men's mouths,
     Alive still, in the praise of such as thou,               320
     I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man,
     The man who loved his life so over-much,
     Sleep in my urn.  It is so horrible,
     I dare at times imagine to my need
     Some future state revealed to us by Zeus,
     Unlimited in capability
     For joy, as this is in desire for joy,
     —To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us:
     That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait
     On purpose to make prized the life at large—             330
     Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death,
     We burst there as the worm into the fly,
     Who, while a worm still, wants his wings.  But no!
     Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas,
     He must have done so, were it possible!

        Live long and happy, and in that thought die;
     Glad for what was!  Farewell.  And for the rest,
     I cannot tell thy messenger aright
     Where to deliver what he bears of thine
     To one called Paulus; we have heard his fame              340
     Indeed, if Christus be not one with him—
     I know not, nor am troubled much to know.
     Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew,
     As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised,
     Hath access to a secret shut from us?
     Thou wrongest our philosophy, 0 king,
     In stooping to inquire of such an one,
     As if his answer could impose at all!
     He writeth, doth he? well, and he may write.
     Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! certain slaves              350
     Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ;
     And (as I gathered from a bystander)
     Their doctrine could be held by no sane man.

     NOTES

     "Cleon" expresses the approach of Greek thought at the time of
     Christ towards the idea of immortality as made known by Cleon, a
     Greek poet writing in reply to a Greek patron whose princely gifts
     and letter asking comment on the philosophical significance of death
     have just reached him.  The important conclusions reached by Cleon
     in his answer are that the composite mind is greater than the minds
     of the past, because it is capable of accomplishing much in many
     lines of activity, and of sympathizing with each of those simple
     great minds that had reached the highest possible perfection "at one
     point."  It is, indeed, the necessary next step in development,
     though all classes of mind fit into the perfected mosaic of life, no
     one achievement blotting out any other.  This soul and mind
     development he deduces from the physical development he sees about
     him.  But since with the growth of human consciousness and the
     increase of knowledge comes greater capability to the soul for joy
     while the failure of physical powers shuts off the possibility of
     realizing joy, it would have been better had man been left with
     nothing higher than mere sense like the brutes.  Dismissing the idea
     of immortality through one's works as unsatisfactory to the
     individual, he finally concludes that a long and happy life is all
     there is to be hoped for, since, had the future life which he has
     sometimes dared to hope for been possible, Zeus would long before
     have revealed it.  He dismisses the preaching of one Paulus as
     untenable.

     "As certain also of your own poets have said": this motto hints that
     Paul's speech at Athens (Acts 17.22-28) suggests and justifies
     Browning's conception of such Greek poets as Cleon seeking "the
     Lord, if haply they might feel after him."  Paul's quotation, "For
     we are also his offspring," is from the "Phoenomena" by Aratus, a
     Greek poet of his own town of Tarsus.

     1.  Sprinkled isles: probably the Sporades, so named because they
     were scattered, and in opposition to the Cyclades, which formed a
     circle around Delos.

     51.  Phare: light-house.  The French authority, Allard, says that
     though there is no mention in classical writings of any light-house
     in Greece proper, it is probable that there was one at the port of
     Athens as well as at other points in Greece.  There were certainly
     several along both shores of the Hellespont, besides the famous
     father of all light-houses, on the island of Pharos, near
     Alexandria.  Hence the French name for light-house, phare.

     53.  Poecile: the portico at Athens painted with battle pictures by
     Polygnotus the Thasian.

     60.  Combined the moods: in Greek music the scales were called moods
     or modes, and were subject to great variation in the arrangement of
     tones and semitones.

     83.  Rhomb . . . lozenge . . . trapezoid: all four-sided forms, but
     differing as to the parallel arrangement of their sides and the
     obliquity of their angles.

     140.  Terpander: musician of Lesbos (about 650 B. C.), who added
     three strings to the four-stringed Greek lyre.

     141.  Phidias: the Athenian sculptor (about 430 B. C.)  —and his
     friend: Pericles, ruler of Athens (444-429 B.C.).  Plutarch speaks
     of their friendship in his Life of Pericles.

     304.  Sappho: poet of Lesbos, supreme among lyricists (about 600
     B. C.).  Only fragments of her verse remain.

     305.  AEschylus: oldest of the three great Athenian dramatists
     (525-472 B. C.).

     340.  Paulus; we have have heard his fame: Paul's mission to the
     Gentiles carried him to many of the islands in the AEgean Sea as
     well as to Athens and Corinth (Acts 13-21).

     I
     I know a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives
     First, when he visits, last, too, when he leaves
     The world; and, vainly favored, it repays
     The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze
     By no change of its large calm front of snow.
     And underneath the Mount, a Flower I know,
     He cannot have perceived, that changes ever
     At his approach; and, in the lost endeavor
     To live his life, has parted, one by one,
     With all a flower's true graces, for the grace             10
     Of being but a foolish mimic sun,
     With ray-like florets round a disk-like face.
     Men nobly call by many a name the Mount
     As over many  a land of theirs its large
     Calm front of snow like a triumphal targe
     Is reared, and still with old names, fresh names vie,
     Each to its proper praise and own account:
     Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, sportively.

     II
     Oh, Angel of the East, one, one gold look
     Across the waters to this twilight nook,                   20
     —The far sad waters.  Angel, to this nook!

     III
     Dear Pilgrim, art thou for the East indeed?
     Go!—saying ever as thou dost proceed,
     That I, French Rudel, choose for my device
     A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice
     Before its idol.  See! These inexpert
     And hurried fingers could not fail to hurt
     The woven picture; 't is a woman's skill
     Indeed; but nothing baffled me, so, ill
     Or well, the work is finished.  Say, men feed              30
     On songs I sing, and therefore bask the bees
     On my flower's breast as on a platform broad:
     But, as the flower's concern is not for these
     But solely for the sun, so men applaud
     In vain this Rudel, he not looking here
     But to the East—the East!  Go, say this, Pilgrim dear!

     NOTES

     "Rudel to the Lady of Tripoli": Rudel symbolizes his love as the
     aspiration of the sunflower that longs only to become like the sun,
     so losing a flower's true grace, while the sun does not even
     perceive the flower.  He imagines himself as a pilgrim revealing to
     the Lady of Tripoli by means of this symbol the entire sinking of
     self in his love for her.  Even men's praise of his songs is no more
     to him than the bees which bask on a sunflower are to it.

     Rudel was a Provencal troubadour, and lived in the twelfth century.
     The Crusaders, returning from the East, spread abroad wonderful
     reports of the beauty, learning, and wit of the Countess of Tripoli,
     a small duchy on the Mediterranean, north of Palestine.  Rudel,
     although never having seen her, fell in love with her and composed
     songs in honor of her beauty, and finally set out to the East in
     pilgrim's garb.  On his way he was taken ill, but lived to reach the
     port of Tripoli.  The countess, being told of his arrival, went on
     board the vessel.  When Rudel heard she was coming, he revived, said
     she had restored him to life by her coming, and that he was willing
     to die, having seen her.  He died in her arms; she gave him a rich
     and honorable burial in a sepulchre of porphyry on which were
     engraved verses in Arabic.

     I
     There they are, my fifty men and women
     Naming me the fifty poems finished!
     Take them, Love, the book and me together:
     Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.

     II
     Rafael made a century of sonnets,
     Made and wrote them in a certain volume
     Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil
     Else he only used to draw Madonnas:
     These, the world might view—but one, the volume.
     Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you.           10
     Did she live and love it all her life-time?
     Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets,
     Die, and let it drop beside her pillow
     Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory,
     Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving—
     Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's,
     Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's?
     You and I would rather read that volume,
     (Taken to his beating bosom by it)
     Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael,                   20
     Would we not?  than wonder at Madonnas—
     Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno,
     Her, that visits Florence in a vision,
     Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre—
     Seen by us and all the world in circle.

     IV
     You and I will never read that volume.
     Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple
     Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it.
     Guido Reni dying, all Bologna
     Cried, and the world cried too, "Ours, the treasure!"      30
     Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

     V
     Dante once prepared to paint an angel:
     Whom to please? You whisper "Beatrice."
     While he mused  and traced it and retraced it,
     (Peradventure with a pen corroded
     Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for,
     When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked,
     Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma,
     Bit into the live man's flesh, for parchment,
     Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle,             40
     Let the wretch go festering through Florence)—
     Dante, who loved well because he hated,
     Hated wickedness that hinders loving,
     Dante standing, studying his angel—
     In there broke the folk of his Inferno.
     Says he—"Certain people of importance"
     Such he gave his daily dreadful line to)
     "Entered and would  seize, forsooth, the poet."
     Says the poet—"Then I stopped my  painting."
     You and I would rather see that angel,                     50
     Painted by the tenderness of Dante,
     Would we not?—than read a fresh Inferno.

     VII
     You and I will never see that picture.
     While he mused on love and Beatrice,
     While he softened o'er his outlined angel,
     In they broke, those "people of importance;"
     We and Bice bear the loss forever.

     VIII
     What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture?
     This: no artist lives and loves, that longs not
     Once, and only once, and for one only,                     60
     (Ah,  the prize !) to find his love a language
     Fit and fair and simple and sufficient—
     Using nature that's an art to others,
     Not, this one time, art that's turned his nature.
     Ay, of all the artists living, loving,
     None but would forego his proper dowry—
     Does he paint? he fain would write a poem—
     Does he write? he fain would paint a picture,
     Put to proof art alien to the artist's,
     Once, and only once, and for one only,                     70
     So to be the man and leave the artist,
     Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow.

     IX
     Wherefore?  Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement!
     He who smites the rock and spreads the water,
     Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him,
     Even he, the minute makes immortal,
     Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute,
     Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing.
     While he smites, how can he but remember,
     So he smote before, in such a peril,                       80
     When they stood and mocked—"Shall smiting help us?"
     When they drank and sneered—"A   stroke is easy!"
     When they wiped their mouths and went their journey,
     Throwing him  for thanks—"But drought was pleasant."
     Thus old memories mar the actual triumph;
     Thus the doing savors of disrelish;
     Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat;
     O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate,
     Carelessness or consciousness—the gesture.
     For he bears an ancient wrong about him,                   90
     Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces,
     Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude—
     "How shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us?"
     Guesses what is like to prove the sequel—
     "Egypt's flesh-pots-nay, the drought was better."

     X
     Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant!
     Theirs, the Sinai-forehead's cloven brilliance,
     Right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat.
     Never  dares the man put off the prophet.

     XI
     Did he love one face from out the thousands,              100
     (Were she Jethro's daughter, white and wifely,
     Were she but the Ethiopian bondslave),
     He would envy yon dumb patient camel,
     Keeping a reserve of scanty water
     Meant to save his own life in the desert;
     Ready in the desert to deliver
     (Kneeling down to let his breast be opened)
     Hoard and life together for his mistress.

     XII
     I shall never, in the years remaining,
     Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues,            110
     Make you music that should all-express me;
     So it seems: I stand on my attainment.
     This of verse alone, one life allows me;
     Verse and nothing else have I to give you.
     Other heights in other lives, God willing;
     All the gifts from all the heights, your own, Love!

     XIII
     Yet a semblance of resource avails us—
     Shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it.
     Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly,
     Lines I write the first time and the last time.           120
     He who works in fresco, steals a hair brush,
     Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly,
     Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little,
     Makes a strange art of an art familiar,
     Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets.
     He who blows thro' bronze, may breathe thro' silver,
     Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess.
     He who writes, may write for once as I do.

     XIV
     Love, you saw me gather men and women,
     Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy,                    130
     Enter each and all, and use their service,
     Speak from every mouth—the speech, a poem.
     Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows,
     Hopes and tears, belief and disbelieving:
     I am mine and yours—the rest be all men's,
     Karshish, Cleon, Norbert and the fifty.
     Let me speak this once in my true person,
     Not as Lippo, Roland or Andrea,
     Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence;
     Pray you, look on these my men and women,                 140
     Take and keep my fifty poems finished;
     Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also!
     Poor the speech; be how I speak, for all things.
     Not but that you know me!  Lo, the moon's self!
     Here in London, yonder late in Florence,
     Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured.
     Curving on a sky imbrued with color,
     Drifted over Fiesole by twilight,
     Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth.
     Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato,                   150
     Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder,
     Perfect till the nightingales applauded.
     Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished,
     Hard to greet, she traverses the houseroofs,
     Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver,
     Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish.

     XVI
     What, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy?
     Nay: for if that moon could love a mortal,
     Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy),
     All her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos),                160
     She would turn a new side to her mortal,
     Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman—
     Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace,
     Blind to Galileo on his turret,
     Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats—him, even!
     Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal—
     When she turns round, comes again in heaven,
     Opens out anew for worse or better!
     Proves she like some portent of an iceberg
     Swimming full upon the ship it founders,                  170
     Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals?
     Proves she as the paved work of a sapphire
     Seen by Moses when he climbed the mountain?
     Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu
     Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest,
     Stand upon the paved work of a sapphire.
     Like the bodied heaven in his clearness
     Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved work,
     When they ate and drank and saw God also!

     XVII
     What were seen? None knows, none ever shall know.         180
     Only this is sure—the sight were other,
     Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence,
     Dying now impoverished here in London.
     God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures
     Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with,
     One to show a woman when he loves her!

     XVIII
     This I say of me, but think of you, Love!
     This to you—yourself my moon of poets!
     Ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder,
     Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you!       190
     There, in turn I stand with them and praise you—
     Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it.
     But the best is when I glide from out them,
     Cross a step or two of dubious twilight,
     Come out on the other side, the novel
     Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of,
     Where I hush and bless myself with silence.

     XIX
     Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas,
     Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno,
     Wrote one song—and in my  brain I sing it,               200
     Drew one angel—borne, see, on my bosom!
                                            R.  B.

     NOTES

     "One Word More" is the dedication to Elizabeth Barrett Browning
     which was appended to "Men and Women" as first published when it
     contained fifty poems since distributed under other titles.

     The poet, recalling how Rafael when he would all-express his love,
     wrote sonnets to the loved one, and how Dante prepared to paint an
     angel for Beatrice, draws the conclusion that there is no artist but
     longs to give expression to his supreme love in some other art than
     his own which would be the medium of a spontaneous, natural outburst
     of feeling in a way impossible in the familiar forms of his own art.
     Thus he would gain a man's joy and miss the artist's sorrow, for,
     like the miracles of Moses, the work of the artist is subject to the
     cold criticism of the world, which expects him nevertheless always
     to be the artist, and has no sympathy for him as a man.  Since there
     is no other art but poetry in which it is possible for Browning to
     express himself, he will at least drop his accustomed dramatic form
     and speak in his own person; though it be poor, let it stand as a
     symbol for all-expression.  Yet does she not know him, for he has
     shown her his soul-side as one might imagine the moon showing
     another side to a mortal lover, which would remain forever as much a
     mystery to the outside world as the vision seen by Moses, etc.
     Similarly, he has admired the side his moon of poets has shown the
     whole world in her poetry, but he blesses himself with the thought
     of the other side which he alone has seen.

     5. Century of sonnets: Rafael is known to have written four love
     sonnets on the back of sketches for his wall painting, the
     "Disputa," which are still preserved in collections, one of them in
     the British Museum.  The Italian text of these sonnets with English
     translations are given in Wolzogen's Life of him translated by
     F. E. Bunn[e`]tt.  Did he ever write a hundred?  It is supposed that
     the lost book once owned by Guido Reni, apparently the one referred
     to in stanza iv, was a book of drawings.  Perhaps these also bore
     sonnets on their backs, or Browning guessed they did.

     10.  Who that one: Margarita, a girl Rafael met and loved in Rome,
     two portraits of whom exist—one in the Barberini Palace, Rome, the
     other in the Pitti, in Florence.  They resemble the Sistine and
     other Madonnas by Rafael.

     21. Madonnas, etc.: "San Sisto," now in Dresden; "Foligno," in the
     Vatican, Rome; the one in Florence is called "del Granduca," and
     represents her appearing in a vision; the one in the Louvre, called
     "La Belle Jardini[e`]re," is seated in a garden among lilies.

     32. Dante once, etc.: "On that day," writes Dante, "Vita Nuova,"
     xxxv, "which fulfilled the year since my lady had been made of the
     citizens of eternal life, remembering of her as I sat alone, I
     betook myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon certain
     tablets."  That this lady was Beatrice Portinari, as Browning
     supposes, Dante's devotion to her, in both "The New Life" and "The
     Divine Comedy," should leave no doubt.  Yet the literalness of
     Mr. W. M.  Rossetti makes him obtuse here, as he and other
     commentators seem to be in their understanding of Browning
     throughout this stanza.  Browning evidently contrasts Dante's
     tenderness here towards Beatrice with the remorselessness of his pen
     in the "Inferno" (see Cantos 32 and 33), where he stigmatized his
     enemies as if using their very flesh for his parchment, so that ever
     after in the eyes of all Florence they seemed to bear the marks of
     the poet's hate of their wickedness.  It was people of this sort,
     grandees of the town, Browning fancies, who again "hinder loving,"
     breaking in upon the poet and seizing him unawares forsooth at this
     intimate moment of loving artistry.  "Chancing to turn my head,"
     Dante continues, "I perceived that some were standing beside me to
     whom I should have given courteous greeting, and that they were
     observing what I did: also I learned afterwards that they had been
     there a while before I perceived them."  The tender moment was over.
     He stopped the painting, simply saying, "Another was with me."

     74. He who smites the rock: Moses, whose experience in smiting the
     rock for water (Exodus 17.1-7; Numbers 20.1-11) is likened to the
     sorrow of the artist, serving a reckless world.

     97.  Sinai-forehead's . . . brilliance: Exodus 19.9, 16; 34.30.

     101. Jethro's daughter: Moses' wife, Zipporah (Exodus 2.16, 21).

     102. AEthiopian bondslave: Numbers 12.1.

     122. Liberal hand: the free hand of the fresco-painter cramped to do
     the exquisite little designs fit for the missal marge = margin of a
     Prayer-book.

     150. Samminiato: San Miniato, a church in Florence.

     161. Turn a new side, etc.: the side turned away from the earth
     which our world never sees.

     163. Zoroaster: (589-513 B. C.), founder of the Persian religion,
     and worshipper of light, whose habit it was to observe the heavens
     from his terrace,

     164. Galileo: (1564-1642), constructor of the first telescope,
     leading him to discover that the Milky Way was an assemblage of
     starry worlds, and the earth a planet revolving on its axis and
     about an orbit, for which opinion he was tried and condemned.  When
     forced to retire from his professorship at Padua, he continued his
     observations from his own house in Florence.

     164. Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats: Homer celebrates the moon in the
     "Hymn to Diana" (see Shelley's translation), and makes Artemis
     upbraid her brother Phoebus when he claims that it is not meet for
     gods to concern themselves with mortals (Iliad, xxi. 470).  Keats,
     in "Endymion," sings of her love for a mortal.

     174. Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, etc.: Exodus 24.1, 10.