Dies ere he knows it. 
     That low man goes on adding one to one,
       His hundred’s soon hit: 
     This high man, aiming at a million,
       Misses an unit. 
     That, has the world here—­should he need the next. 
       Let the world mind him! 
     This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed
       Seeking shall find him. 
     So, with the throttling hands of death at strife,
       Ground he at grammar;
     Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife: 
       While he could stammer
     He settled Hoti’s business—­let it be!—­
       Properly based Oun—­
     Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De,
       Dead from the waist down.

     Well, here’s the platform, here’s the proper place: 
       Hail to your purlieus,
     All ye highfliers of the feathered race,
       Swallows and curlews! 
     Here’s the top-peak; the multitude below
       Live, for they can, there: 
     This man decided not to Live but Know—­
       Bury this man there? 
     Here—­here’s his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,
       Lightnings are loosened,
     Stars come and go!  Let joy break with the storm,
       Peace let the dew send! 
     Lofty designs must close in like effects: 
       Loftily lying,
     Leave him—­still loftier than the world suspects,
       Living and dying.

     MY LAST DUCHESS

     FERRARA

     That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
     Looking as if she were alive.  I call
     That piece a wonder, now:  Fra Pandolf’s hands
     Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 
     Will’t please you sit and look at her?  I said
     “Fra Pandolf” by design:  for never read
     Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
     The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
     But to myself they turned (since none puts by
     The curtain I have drawn for you, but I),
     And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
     How such a glance came there; so, not the first
     Are you to turn and ask thus.  Sir, ’twas not
     Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
     Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek:  perhaps
     Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps
     Over my lady’s wrists too much,” or “Paint
     Must never hope to reproduce the faint
     Half-flush that dies along her throat;” such stuff
     Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
     For calling up that spot of joy.  She had
     A heart—­how shall I say?—­too soon made glad,
     Too easily impressed:  she liked whate’er
     She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 
     Sir, ’twas all one!  My favor at her breast,
     The dropping of the daylight in the West,
     The bough of cherries some officious fool
     Broke in the orchard