Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,—­
And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond,
This in the background, waiting on my work,
To crown the issue with a last reward! 
A good tune, was it not, my kingly days? 
And had you not grown restless ... but I know—­
’Tis done and past; ’twas right, my instinct said;
Too live the life grew, golden and not gray: 
And I’m the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt
Out of the grange whose four walls make his world, 170
How could it end in any other way? 
You called me, and I came home to your heart,
The triumph was—­to reach and stay there; since
I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? 
Let my hands frame your face in your hair’s gold,
You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! 
“Rafael did this, Andrea painted that;
The Roman’s is the better when you pray,
But still the other’s Virgin was his wife—­”
Men will excuse me.  I am glad to judge 180
Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows
My better fortune, I resolve to think. 
For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives,
Said one day Agnolo, his very self,
To Rafael...  I have known it all these years... 
(When the young man was flaming out his thoughts
Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see,
Too lifted up in heart because of it)
“Friend, there’s a certain sorry little scrub
Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, 190
Who, were he set to plan and execute
As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings,
Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!”
To Rafael’s!—­And indeed the arm is wrong. 
I hardly dare ... yet, only you to see,
Give the chalk here—­quick, thus the line should go! 
Ay, but the soul! he’s Rafael! rub it out! 
Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth,
(What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? 
Do you forget already words like those?) 200
If really there was such a chance so lost,—­
Is, whether you’re—­not grateful—­but more pleased. 
Well, let me think so.  And you smile indeed!

This hour has been an hour!  Another smile? 
If you would sit thus by me every night
I should work better, do you comprehend? 
I mean that I should earn more, give you more. 
See, it is settled dusk now; there’s a star;
Morello’s gone, the watch-lights show the wall,
The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. 210
Come from the window, Love,—­come in, at last,
Inside the melancholy little house
We built to be so gay with.  God is just. 
King Francis may forgive me:  oft at nights
When I look up from painting, eyes tired out,
The walls become illumined, brick from brick
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce, bright gold,
That gold of his I did cement them with! 
Let us but love each other.  Must you go?