Yonder’s a work now, of that famous youth
The Urbinate who died five years ago. 
(’Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.)
Well, I can fancy how he did it all,
Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see,
Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him,
Above and thro’ his art—­for it gives way; 110
That arm is wrongly put—­and there again—­
A fault to pardon in the drawing’s lines,
Its body, so to speak:  its soul is right,
He means right—­that, a child may understand. 
Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: 
But all the play, the insight and the stretch—­
Out of me, out of me!  And wherefore out? 
Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul,
We might have risen to Rafael deg., I and you! deg.119
Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think—­ 120
More than I merit, yes, by many times. 
But had you—­oh, with the same perfect brow,
And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,
And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird
The fowler’s pipe, and follows to the snare—­
Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! 
Some women do so.  Had the mouth there urged
“God and the glory! never care for gain.

The present by the future, what is that? 
Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo deg.! deg.130
Rafael is waiting:  up to God, all three!”
I might have done it for you.  So it seems: 
Perhaps not.  All is as God over-rules. 
Beside, incentives come from the soul’s self;
The rest avail not.  Why do I need you? 
What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? 
In this world, who can do a thing, will not;
And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: 
Yet the will’s somewhat—­somewhat, too, the power—­
And thus we half-men struggle.  At the end, 140
God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 
’Tis safer for me, if the award be strict,
That I am something underrated here,
Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. 
I dared not, do you know, leave home all day,
For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. 
The best is when they pass and look aside;
But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all. 
Well may they speak.  That Francis, that first time,
And that long festal year at Fontainebleau deg.! deg.150
I surely then could sometimes leave the ground,
Put on the glory, Rafael’s daily wear,
In that humane great monarch’s golden look,—­
One finger in his beard or twisted curl
Over his mouth’s good mark that made the smile. 
One arm, about my shoulder, round my neck,
The jingle of his gold chain in my ear,
I painting proudly with his breath on me,
All his court round him, seeing with his eyes. 
Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls 160