38
PIPPA PASSES.
Here is a woman with utter need of me,—
I find myself queen here, it seems!
I find myself queen here, it seems! How strange!
Look at the woman here with the new soul,
Like my own Psyche,—fresh upon her lips
Alit, the visionary butterfly,
Waiting my word to enter and make bright,
Or flutter off and leave all blank as first.
This body had no soul before, but slept
Or stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, free
From taint or foul with stain, as outward things
Fastened their image on its passiveness:
Now, it will wake, feel, live—or die again!
Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuff
Be Art—and further, to evoke a soul
From form be nothing? This new soul is mine!
I find myself queen here, it seems!
I find myself queen here, it seems! How strange!
Look at the woman here with the new soul,
Like my own Psyche,—fresh upon her lips
Alit, the visionary butterfly,
Waiting my word to enter and make bright,
Or flutter off and leave all blank as first.
This body had no soul before, but slept
Or stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, free
From taint or foul with stain, as outward things
Fastened their image on its passiveness:
Now, it will wake, feel, live—or die again!
Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuff
Be Art—and further, to evoke a soul
From form be nothing? This new soul is mine!
Now, to kill Lutwyche, what would that do?—save
A wretched dauber, men will hoot to death
Without me, from their hooting. Oh, to hear
God’s voice plain as I heard it first, before
They broke in with their laughter! I heard them
Henceforth, not God.
Henceforth, not God. To Ancona—Greece—some isle!
I wanted silence only; there is clay
Everywhere. One may do whate’er one likes
In Art: the only thing is, to make sure
That one does like it—which takes pains to know.
Scatter all this, my Phene—this mad dream!
Who, what is Lutwyche, what Natalia’s friends,
What the whole world except our love—my own,
Own Phene? But I told you, did I not,
Ere night we travel for your land—some isle
With the sea’s silence on it? Stand aside—
A wretched dauber, men will hoot to death
Without me, from their hooting. Oh, to hear
God’s voice plain as I heard it first, before
They broke in with their laughter! I heard them
Henceforth, not God.
Henceforth, not God. To Ancona—Greece—some isle!
I wanted silence only; there is clay
Everywhere. One may do whate’er one likes
In Art: the only thing is, to make sure
That one does like it—which takes pains to know.
Scatter all this, my Phene—this mad dream!
Who, what is Lutwyche, what Natalia’s friends,
What the whole world except our love—my own,
Own Phene? But I told you, did I not,
Ere night we travel for your land—some isle
With the sea’s silence on it? Stand aside—
