And hereupon he bade me daub away. 
Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank,
Never was such prompt disemburdening. 
First, every sort of monk, the black and white,
I drew them, fat and lean :  then, folk at church,
From good old gossips waiting to confess
Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends—­
To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot,
Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there 150
With the little children round him in a row
Of admiration, half for his beard and half
For that white anger of his victim’s son
Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm,
Signing himself with the other because of Christ
(Whose sad face on the cross sees only this
After the passion of a thousand years)
Till some poor girl, her apron o’er her head,
(Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve
On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, 160
Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers
(The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone,
I painted all, then cried “’T is ask and have;
Choose, for more’s ready!”—­laid the ladder flat,
And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. 
The monks closed in a circle and praised loud
Till checked, taught what to see and not to see,
Being simple bodies—­“That’s the very man! 
Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! 
That woman’s like the Prior’s niece who comes 170
To care about his asthma:  it’s the life!”
But there my triumph’s straw-fire flared and funked;
Their betters took their turn to see and say: 
The Prior and the learned pulled a face
And stopped all that in no time.  “How? what’s here? 
Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all! 
Faces, arms, legs and bodies like the true
As much as pea and pea! it’s devil’s-game! 
Your business is not to catch men with show,
With homage to the perishable clay, 180
But lift them over it, ignore it all,
Make them forget there’s such a thing as flesh. 
Your business is to paint the souls of men—­
Man’s soul, and it’s a fire, smoke . . . no, it’s not . . . 
It’s vapor done up like a new-born babe—­
(In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth)
It’s . . . well, what matters talking, it’s the soul! 
Give us no more of body than shows soul! 
Here’s Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God,
That sets us praising—­why not stop with him? 190
Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head
With wonder at lines, colors, and what not? 
Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! 
Rub all out, try at it a second time. 
Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts,
She’s just my niece . . .  Herodias, I would say—­
Who went and danced and got men’s heads cut off! 
Have it all out!  “Now, is this sense, I ask? 
A fine way to paint soul, by painting body
So ill, the eye can’t stop there, must go further