200
And can’t fare worse!  Thus, yellow does for white
When what you put for yellow’s simply black,
And any sort of meaning looks intense
When all beside itself means and looks naught. 
Why can’t a painter lift each foot in turn,
Left foot and right foot, go a double step,
Make his flesh liker and his soul more like,
Both in their order?  Take the prettiest face,
The Prior’s niece . . . patron-saint—­is it so pretty
You can’t discover if it means hope, fear, 210
Sorrow or joy? won’t beauty go with these? 
Suppose I’ve made her eyes all right and blue,
Can’t I take breath and try to add life’s flash,
And then add soul and heighten them three-fold? 
Or say there’s beauty with no soul at all—­
(I never saw it—­put the case the same—­)
If you get simple beauty and naught else,
You get about the best thing God invents: 
That’s somewhat:  and you’ll find the soul you have missed,
Within yourself, when you return him thanks. 220
“Rub all out!  “Well, well, there’s my life, in short,
And so the thing has gone on ever since. 
I’m grown a man no doubt, I’ve broken bounds: 
You should not take a fellow eight years old
And make him swear to never kiss the girls. 
I’m my own master, paint now as I please—­
Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house! 
Lord, it’s fast holding by the rings in front—­
Those great rings serve more purposes than just
To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! 230
And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes
Are peeping o’er my shoulder as I work,
The heads shake still—­“It’s art’s decline, my son! 
You’re not of the true painters, great and old;
Brother Angelico’s the man, you’ll find;
Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer: 
Fag on at flesh, you’ll never make the third!”
Flower o’ the pine,
You keep your mistr . . . manners, and I’ll stick to mine!
I’m not the third, then:  bless us, they must know! 240
Don’t you think they’re the likeliest to know,
They with their Latin?  So, I swallow my rage,
Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint
To please them—­sometimes do and sometimes don’t;
For, doing most, there’s pretty sure to come
A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints—­
A laugh, a cry, the business of the world—­
(Flower o’ the peach,
Death for us all, and his own life for each!)
And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, 250
The world and life’s too big to pass for a dream,
And I do these wild things in sheer despite,
And play the fooleries you catch me at,
In pure rage!  The old mill-horse, out at grass
After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so,
Although the miller does not preach to him
The only good of grass is to make chaff. 
What would men have?  Do they like grass or no—­
May they or may n’t they? all I want’s