To Raphael

Master of adored Madonnas, What is this men say of thee? Thou wert something less than honor’s Most exact epitome?

Yes, they say you loved too many, Loved too often, loved too well. Just as if there could be any Over-loving, Raphael!

Was it, “Sir, and how came this tress, Long and raven? Mine are gold!” You should have made Art your mistress, Lived an anchorite and old!

Ah, no doubt these dear good people On familiar terms with God, Could devise a parish steeple Built to heaven without a hod.

You and Solomon and Cæsar Were three fellows of a kind; Not a woman but to please her You would leave your soul behind.

Those dead women with their beauty, How they must have loved you well,-- Dared to make desire a duty, With the heretics in hell!

And your brother, that Catullus, What a plight he must be in, If those silver songs that lull us Were result of mortal sin!

If the artist were ungodly, Prurient of mind and heart, I must think they argue oddly Who make shrines before his art.

Not the meanest aspiration Ever sprung from soul depraved Into art, but art’s elation Was the sanctity it craved.

Oh, no doubt you had your troubles, Devils blue that blanched your hope. I dare say your fancy’s bubbles, Breaking, had a taste of soap.

Did your lady-loves undo you In some mediæval way? Ah, my Raphael, here’s to you! It is much the same to-day.

Did their tantalizing laughter Make your wisdom overbold? Were you fire at first; and after, Did their kisses leave you cold?

Did some fine perfidious Nancy, With the roses in her hair, Play the marsh-fire to your fancy Over quagmires of despair?

My poor boy, were there more flowers In your Florence and your Rome, Wasting through the gorgeous hours, Than your two hands could bring home?

Be content; you have your glory; Life was full and sleep is well. What the end is of the story, There’s no paragraph to tell.

TO P. V.

So they would raise your monument, Old vagabond of lovely earth? Another answer without words To Humdrum’s, “What are poets worth?”

Not much we gave you when alive, Whom now we lavishly deplore,-- A little bread, a little wine, A little caporal--no more.

Here in our lodging of a day You roistered till we were appalled; Departing, in your room we found A string of golden verses scrawled.

The princely manor-house of art, A vagrant artist entertains; And when he gets him to the road, Behold, a princely gift remains.

Abashed, we set your name above The purse-full patrons of our board; Remind newcomers with a nudge, “Verlaine took once what we afford!”

The gardens of the Luxembourg, Spreading beneath the brilliant sun, Shall be your haunt of leisure now When all your wander years are done.

There you shall stand, the very mien You wore in Paris streets of old, And ponder what a thing is life, Or watch the chestnut blooms unfold.

There you will find, I dare surmise, Another tolerance than ours, The loving-kindness of the grass, The tender patience of the flowers.

And every year, when May returns To bring the golden age again, And hope comes back with poetry In your loved land across the Seine,

Some youth will come with foreign speech, Bearing his dream from over sea, A lover of your flawless craft, Apprenticed to your poverty.

He will be mute before you there, And mark those lineaments which tell What stormy unrelenting fate Had one who served his art so well.

And there be yours, the livelong day, Beyond the mordant reach of pain, The little gospel of the leaves, The Nunc dimittis of the rain!