New Year's Day at Asolo in the
Scene.—A large mean airy chamber.
A girl,
Pippa, from the Silk-mills, springing out of bed.
Day!
Faster and more fast,
O'er night's brim, day boils at last:
Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's
Where spurting and suppressed it lay,
For not a froth-flake touched the
Of yonder gap in the solid
Of the eastern cloud, an hour away;
But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,
Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed,
Rose, reddened, and its seething
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.
Oh,
Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee,
A mite of my twelve hours' treasure,
The least of thy gazes or glances,(Be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure)One of thy choices or one of thy chances,(Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure)—My Day, if I squander such labour or leisure,
Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me!
Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing,
Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good—Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going,
As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood—All shall be mine!
But thou must treat me
As prosperous ones are treated, those who
At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot,
In readiness to take what thou wilt give,
And free to let alone what thou refusest;
For,
Day, my holiday, if thou
Me, who am only Pippa,—old-year's sorrow,
Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow:
Whereas, if thou prove gentle,
I shall
Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow.
All other men and women that this
Belongs to, who all days alike possess,
Make general plenty cure particular dearth,
Get more joy one way, if another, less:
Thou art my single day,
God lends to
What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven,—Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's!
Try now!
Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones—And let thy morning rain on that
Great haughty Ottima; can rain
Her Sebald's homage?
All the while thy
Beats fiercest on her shrub-house window-pane,
He will but press the closer, breathe more
Against her cheek; how should she mind the storm?
And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloomO'er Jules and Phene,—what care bride and
Save for their dear selves? 'T is their marriage-day;
And while they leave church and go home their way,
Hand clasping hand, within each breast would
Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee.
Then, for another trial, obscure thy
With mist,—will Luigi and his mother grieve—The lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth,
She in her age, as Luigi in his youth,
For true content?
The cheerful town, warm,
And safe, the sooner that thou art morose,
Receives them.
And yet once again,
In storm at night on Monsignor, they
Such stir about,—whom they expect from
To visit Asolo, his brothers' home,
And say here masses proper to releaseA soul from pain,—what storm dares hurt his peace?
Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to
Thy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard.
But Pippa—just one such mischance would
Her day that lightens the next twelvemonth's
At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil!
And here I let time slip for nought!
Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam,
With a single splash from my ewer!
You that would mock the best pursuer,
Was my basin over-deep?
One splash of water ruins you asleep,
And up, up, fleet your brilliant
Wheeling and counterwheeling,
Reeling, broken beyond healing:
Now grow together on the ceiling!
That will task your wits.
Whoever it was quenched fire first, hoped to
Morsel after morsel
As merrily, as giddily . . .
Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on,
Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple?
Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon?
New-blown and ruddy as St.
Agnes' nipple,
Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll!
Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the
Of ocean, bud there,—fairies watch
Such turban-flowers;
I say, such lamps
Thick red flame through that dusk green universe!
I am queen of thee, floweret!
And each fleshy
Preserve I
Than leaves that embower it,
Or shells that embosom)—From weevil and chafer?
Laugh through my pane then; solicit the bee;
Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee,
Love thy queen, worship me!—Worship whom else?
For am I not, this day,
Whate'er I please?
What shall I please to-day?
My morn, noon, eve and night—how spend my day?
To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk,
The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk:
But, this one day,
I have leave to go,
And play out my fancy's fullest games;
I may fancy all day—and it shall be so—That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the
Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo!
See!
Up the hill-side yonder, through the morning,
Some one shall love me, as the world calls love:
I am no less than Ottima, take warning!
The gardens, and the great stone house above,
And other house for shrubs, all glass in front,
Are mine; where Sebald steals, as he is wont,
To court me, while old Luca yet reposes:
And therefore, till the shrub-house door uncloses,
I . . . what now?—give abundant cause for
About me—Ottima,
I mean—of late,
Too bold, too confident she'll still face
The spitefullest of talkers in our town.
How we talk in the little town below!
But love, love, love—there's better love,
I know!
This foolish love was only day's first offer;
I choose my next love to defy the scoffer:
For do not our Bride and Bridegroom
Out of Possagno church at noon?
Their house looks over Orcana valley:
Why should not I be the bride as
As Ottima?
For I saw, beside,
Arrive last night that little bride—Saw, if you call it seeing her, one
Of the pale snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses,
Blacker than all except the black eyelash;
I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses!—So strict was she, the
Should cover close her
Pure cheeks—a bride to look at and scarce touch,
Scarce touch, remember,
Jules!
For are not
Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature,
As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature?
A soft and easy life these ladies lead:
Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed.
Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness,
Keep that foot its lady primness,
Let those ankles never
From their exquisite reserve,
Yet have to trip along the streets like me,
All but naked to the knee!
How will she ever grant her Jules a
So startling as her real first infant kiss?
Oh, no—not envy, this!—Not envy, sure!—for if you gave
Leave to take or to refuse,
In earnest, do you think I'd
That sort of new love to enslave me?
Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning;
As little fear of losing it as winning:
Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives,
And only parents' love can last our lives.
At eve the Son and Mother, gentle pair,
Commune inside our turret: what
My being Luigi?
While that mossy
Of lizards through the winter-time is
With each to each imparting sweet
For this new-year, as brooding bird to bird—(For I observe of late, the evening
Of Luigi and his mother, always
Inside our ruined turret, where they talk,
Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends)—Let me be cared about, kept out of harm,
And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm;
Let me be Luigi!
If I only
What was my mother's face—my father, too!
Nay, if you come to that, best love of
Is God's; then why not have God's love
Myself as, in the palace by the Dome,
Monsignor?—who to-night will bless the
Of his dead brother; and God bless in
That heart which beats, those eyes which mildly
With love for all men!
I, to-night at least,
Would be that holy and beloved priest.
Now wait!—even I already seem to
In God's love: what does New-year's hymn declare?
What other meaning do these verses bear?
All service ranks the same with God:
If now, as formerly he
Paradise, his presence
Our earth, each only as God
Can work—God's puppets, best and worst,
Are we; there is no last nor first.
Say not "a small event!" Why "small"?
Costs it more pain that this, ye callA "great event," should come to pass,
Than that?
Untwine me from the
Of deeds which make up life, one
Power shall fall short in or exceed!
And more of it, and more of it!—oh yes—I will pass each, and see their happiness,
And envy none—being just as great, no doubt,
Useful to men, and dear to God, as they!
A pretty thing to care
So mightily, this single holiday!
But let the sun shine!
Wherefore repine?—With thee to lead me,
O Day of mine,
Down the grass path grey with dew,
Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs,
Where the swallow never
Nor yet cicala dared carouse—No, dared carouse![She enters the street]
