And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,
And up into the aery dome where live
The angels, and a sunbeam’s sure to lurk;
And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,
And ’neath my tabernacle take my rest,
With those nine columns round me, two and two,
The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: 
Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe
As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. 30
—­Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,
Put me where I may look at him!  True peach,
Rosy and flawless:  how I earned the prize! 
Draw close:  that conflagration of my church
—­What then?  So much was saved if aught were missed! 
My sons, ye would not be my death?  Go dig
The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood,
Drop water gently till the surface sink,
And if ye find . . .  Ah God, I know not, I! . . . 
Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, 40
And corded up in a tight olive-frail,
Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,
Big as a Jew’s head cut off at the nape,
Blue as a vein o’er the Madonna’s breast . . . 
Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all,
That brave Frascati villa with its bath,
So, let the blue lump poise between my knees,
Like God the Father’s globe on both his hands
Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay,
For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! 50
Swift as a weaver’s shuttle fleet our years: 
Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? 
Did I say basalt for my slab, sons?  Black—­
’T was ever antique-black I meant!  How else
Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? 
The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,
The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 60
Ready to twitch the Nymph’s last garment off,
And Moses with the tables . . . but I know
Ye mark me not!  What do they whisper thee,
Child of my bowels, Anselm?  Ah, ye hope
To revel down my villas while I gasp
Bricked o’er with beggar’s mouldy travertine
Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! 
Nay, boys, ye love me—­all of jasper, then! 
’T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve. 
My bath must needs be left behind, alas! 70
One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut,
There’s plenty jasper somewhere in the world—­
And have I not Saint Praxed’s ear to pray
Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts,
And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? 
—­That’s if ye carve my epitaph aright,
Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully’s every word,
No gaudy ware like Gandolf’s second line—­
Tully, my masters?  Ulpian serves his need! 
And then how I shall lie through centuries, 80
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,