That the artist stills these gnawing, prying doubts,
To let defiance take their place.
Then with a sparkling eye and twitching pallid cheeks,
The quiet artist plunges into the fray,
Like a tigress leaping at an enemy
That stalks to slay her unsuspecting young.
His suffering exceeds the tigress’ pains,
For she gave only milk to feed her suckling young,
But the artist gave the blood from out his heart!
Thus Donnatello spends in prying thoughts,
That slowly passing, drawn-out, sunlit day.
And when, at length, the streets at dusk are stilled,
And the starry splendor of the dreamy night
Blazes in glory over the sleeping town,
Then Donnatello slowly opens his doors
And pausing on the threshold of his home,
Thus muses, in his aching burdened heart.
“What means the peoples’ praise and blame to me?
’Tis just a wind that comes and goes at will
And does not leave a trace once it is gone.
But humbly, deeply I will bow my head
Before my master’s most judicious words,
Because his lips are like a tent of truth,
His soul a shrine of all that is beautiful.
Upon my temples he alone shall place
A laurel wreath or else a hawthorn leaf.”
Then with a quickened step he hastens forth
And finds his aged master still awake,
Upon a roof from whence the aged eyes can see
The sleeping city and the whispering stream;
The scented gardens’ darkened leafy trees
Where blazing glow-worms flicker here and there;
And the bluish wreath of far Apennine hills
Above whose summit dreams the yellow moon.
“My master!” Donnatello pleads, “My dearest friend!”
The old man’s eyes, filled with the sparkling rays
His soul absorbed from out the glimmering skies,
Are fixed upon the pupil’s pallid cheeks.
“I waited for you, Donnatello mine.”
The pupil grasps the outstretched bony hand
The master offers him in welcoming,
And in a voice with passion tremulous
He speaks and pours in words his burdened soul:
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