34
PIPPA PASSES.
And all came round me,—that thin Englishman
With light lank hair seemed leader of the rest;
He held a paper—“What we want,” said he,
Ending some explanation to his friends—
“Is something slow, involved and mystical,
To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his taste
And lure him on until, at innermost
Where he seeks sweetness’ soul, he may find—this!
—As in the apple’s core, the noisome fly:
For insects on the rind are seen at once,
And brushed aside as soon, but this is found
Only when on the lips or loathing tongue.”
And so he read what I have got by heart:
I’ll speak it,—“Do not die, love! I am yours.”
No—is not that, or like that, part of words
Yourself began by speaking? Strange to lose
What cost such pains to learn! Is this more right?
With light lank hair seemed leader of the rest;
He held a paper—“What we want,” said he,
Ending some explanation to his friends—
“Is something slow, involved and mystical,
To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his taste
And lure him on until, at innermost
Where he seeks sweetness’ soul, he may find—this!
—As in the apple’s core, the noisome fly:
For insects on the rind are seen at once,
And brushed aside as soon, but this is found
Only when on the lips or loathing tongue.”
And so he read what I have got by heart:
I’ll speak it,—“Do not die, love! I am yours.”
No—is not that, or like that, part of words
Yourself began by speaking? Strange to lose
What cost such pains to learn! Is this more right?
I am a painter who cannot paint;
In my life, a devil rather than saint;
In my brain, as poor a creature too:
No end to all I cannot do!
Yet do one thing at least I can—
Love a man or hate a man
Supremely: thus my lore began.
Through the Valley of Love I went,
In the lovingest spot to abide,
And just on the verge where I pitched my tent,
I found Hate dwelling beside.
(Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant,
Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride!)
And further, I traversed Hate’s grove,
In the hatefullest nook to dwell;
But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Love
In my life, a devil rather than saint;
In my brain, as poor a creature too:
No end to all I cannot do!
Yet do one thing at least I can—
Love a man or hate a man
Supremely: thus my lore began.
Through the Valley of Love I went,
In the lovingest spot to abide,
And just on the verge where I pitched my tent,
I found Hate dwelling beside.
(Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant,
Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride!)
And further, I traversed Hate’s grove,
In the hatefullest nook to dwell;
But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Love
