Do easily, too—­when I say, perfectly,
I do not boast, perhaps:  yourself are judge,
Who listened to the Legate’s talk last week,
And just as much they used to say in France. 
At any rate ’tis easy, all of it! 
No sketches first, no studies, that’s long past: 
I do what many dream of, all their lives,
—­Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, 70
And fail in doing.  I could count twenty such
On twice your fingers, and not leave this town,
Who strive—­you don’t know how the others strive
To paint a little thing like that you smeared
Carelessly passing with your robes afloat—­
Yet do much less, so much less.  Someone says,
(I know his name, no matter)—­so much less! 
Well, less is more, Lucrezia:  I am judged. 
There burns a truer light of God in them,
In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, 80
Heart, or whate’er else, than goes on to prompt
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman’s hand of mine. 
Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know,
Reach many a time a heaven that’s shut to me,
Enter and take their place there sure enough,
Though they come back and cannot tell the world. 
My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. 
The sudden blood of these men! at a word—­
Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. 
I, painting from myself and to myself, 90
Know what I do, am unmoved by men’s blame
Or their praise either.  Somebody remarks
Morello’s outline there is wrongly traced,
His hue mistaken; what of that? or else,
Sightly traced and well ordered; what of that? 
Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? 
Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what’s a heaven for?  All is silver-gray
Placid, and perfect with my art:  the worse! 
I know both what I want and what might gain, 100
And yet how profitless to know, to sigh
“Had I been two, another and myself,
Our head would have o’erlooked the world!” No doubt. 
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 through 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, I and you! 
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,