PIPPA PASSES.
21
The hill-side ’s dew-pearled;
The lark ’s on the wing;
The snail ’s on the thorn:
God ’s in his heaven—
All’s right with the world!
[Pippa passes.
The lark ’s on the wing;
The snail ’s on the thorn:
God ’s in his heaven—
All’s right with the world!
[Pippa passes.
Sebald. God ’s in his heaven! Do you hear that? Who spoke?
You, you spoke!
You, you spoke!Ottima. Oh—that little ragged girl!
She must have rested on the step: we give them
But this one holiday the whole year round.
Did you ever see our silk-mills—their inside?
There are ten silk-mills now belong to you.
She stoops to pick my double heartsease… Sh!
She does not hear: call you out louder!
She does not hear: call you out louder!Sebald. Leave me!
Go, get your clothes on—dress those shoulders!
Go, get your clothes on—dress those shoulders!Ottima. Sebald?
Sebald. Wipe off that paint! I hate you.
Sebald. Wipe off that paint! I hate you.Ottima. Miserable!
Sebald. My God, and she is emptied of it now!
Outright now!—how miraculously gone
All of the grace—had she not strange grace once?
Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes,
No purpose holds the features up together,
Only the cloven brow and puckered chin
Stay in their places: and the very hair,
That seemed to have a sort of life in it,
Drops, a dead web!
Drops, a dead web!Ottima. Speak to me—not of me!
Sebald.—That round great full-orbed face, where not an angle
Broke the delicious indolence—all broken!
You, you spoke!
You, you spoke!Ottima. Oh—that little ragged girl!
She must have rested on the step: we give them
But this one holiday the whole year round.
Did you ever see our silk-mills—their inside?
There are ten silk-mills now belong to you.
She stoops to pick my double heartsease… Sh!
She does not hear: call you out louder!
She does not hear: call you out louder!Sebald. Leave me!
Go, get your clothes on—dress those shoulders!
Go, get your clothes on—dress those shoulders!Ottima. Sebald?
Sebald. Wipe off that paint! I hate you.
Sebald. Wipe off that paint! I hate you.Ottima. Miserable!
Sebald. My God, and she is emptied of it now!
Outright now!—how miraculously gone
All of the grace—had she not strange grace once?
Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes,
No purpose holds the features up together,
Only the cloven brow and puckered chin
Stay in their places: and the very hair,
That seemed to have a sort of life in it,
Drops, a dead web!
Drops, a dead web!Ottima. Speak to me—not of me!
Sebald.—That round great full-orbed face, where not an angle
Broke the delicious indolence—all broken!
