Although you thought to have shut a tedious book
And farewell. Ah, you dog-eared such a page,
And here you find me.’
Did he touch my hand,
Or but my sleeve? I trembled, hand and foot,—
He must have touched me.—‘Will you sit?’ I asked,
And motioned to a chair; but down he sate,
A little slowly, as a man in doubt,
Upon the couch beside me,—couch and chair
Being wheeled upon the terrace.
‘You are come,
My cousin Romney?—this is wonderful.
But all is wonder on such summer-nights;
And nothing should surprise us any more,
Who see that miracle of stars. Behold.’
I signed above, where all the stars were out,
As if an urgent heat had started there
A secret writing from a sombre page,
A blank last moment, crowded suddenly
With hurrying splendours.
‘Then you do not know—
He murmured.
‘Yes, I know,’ I said, ‘I know.
I had the news from Vincent Carrington.
And yet I did not think you’d leave the work
In England, for so much even,—though, of course,
You’ll make a work-day of your holiday,
And turn it to our Tuscan people’s use,—
Who much need helping since the Austrian boar
