style="margin-top: 2em">When that which is divine in us doth try
    To shape a face, both brain and hand unite
    To give, from a mere model frail and slight,
    Life to the stone by Art's free energy.
Thus too before the painter dares to ply
    Paint-brush or canvas, he is wont to write
    Sketches on scraps of paper, and invite
    Wise minds to judge his figured history.
So, born a model rude and mean to be
    Of my poor self, I gain a nobler birth,
    Lady, from you, you fountain of all worth!
Each overplus and each deficiency
    You will make good. What penance then is due
    For my fierce heat, chastened and taught by you?

XV.

THE LOVER AND THE SCULPTOR.

Non ha l' ottimo artista.

The best of artists hath no thought to show
    Which the rough stone in its superfluous shell
    Doth not include: to break the marble spell
    Is all the hand that serves the brain can do.
The ill I shun, the good I seek, even so
    In thee, fair lady, proud, ineffable,
    Lies hidden: but the art I wield so well
    Works adverse to my wish, and lays me low.
Therefore not love, nor thy transcendent face,
    Nor cruelty, nor fortune, nor disdain,
    Cause my mischance, nor fate, nor destiny;
Since in thy heart thou carriest death and grace
    Enclosed together, and my worthless brain
    Can draw forth only death to feed on me.

XVI.

LOVE AND ART.

Sì come nella penna.

As pen and ink alike serve him who sings
    In high or low or intermediate style;
    As the same stone hath shapes both rich and vile
    To match the fancies that each master brings;
So, my loved lord, within thy bosom springs
    Pride mixed with meekness and kind thoughts that smile:
    Whence I draw nought, my sad self to beguile,
    But what my face shows—dark imaginings.
He who for seed sows sorrow, tears, and sighs,
    (The dews that fall from heaven, though pure and clear,
    From different germs take divers qualities)
Must needs reap grief and garner weeping eyes;
    And he who looks on beauty with sad cheer,
    Gains doubtful hope and certain miseries.

XVII.

THE ARTIST AND HIS WORK.

Com' esser, donna, può.

How can that be, lady, which all men learn
    By long experience? Shapes that seem alive,
    Wrought in hard mountain marble, will survive
    Their maker, whom the years to dust return!
Thus to effect cause yields. Art hath her turn,
    And triumphs over Nature. I, who strive
    With Sculpture, know this well; her wonders live
    In spite of time and death, those tyrants stern.
So I can give long life to both of us
    In either way, by colour or by stone,
    Making the semblance of thy face and mine.
Centuries hence when both are buried, thus
    Thy beauty and my sadness shall be shown,
    And men shall say, 'For her 'twas wise to pine.'

XVIII.

BEAUTY AND THE ARTIST.

Al cor di zolfo.

A heart of flaming sulphur, flesh of tow,
    Bones of dry wood, a soul without a guide
    To curb the fiery will, the ruffling pride
    Of fierce desires that from the passions flow;
A sightless mind that weak and lame doth go
    Mid snares and pitfalls scattered far and wide;—
    What wonder if the first chance brand applied
    To fuel massed like this should make it glow?
Add beauteous art, which, brought with us from heaven,
    Will conquer nature;—so divine a power
    Belongs to him who strives with every nerve.
If I was made for art, from childhood given
    A prey for burning beauty to devour,
    I blame the mistress I was born to serve.

XIX.

THE AMULET OF LOVE.

Io mi son caro assai più.

Far more than I was wont myself I prize:
    With you within my heart I rise in rate,
    Just as a gem engraved with delicate
    Devices o'er the uncut stone doth rise;
Or as a painted sheet exceeds in price
    Each leaf left pure and in its virgin state:
    Such then am I since I was consecrate
    To be the mark for arrows from your eyes.
Stamped with your seal I'm safe where'er I go,
    Like one who carries charms or coat of mail
    Against all dangers that his life assail
Nor fire nor water now may work me woe;
    Sight to the blind I can restore by you,
    Heal every wound, and every loss renew.

XX.

THE GARLAND AND THE GIRDLE.

Quanta si gode, lieta.

What joy hath yon glad wreath of flowers that is
    Around her golden hair so deftly twined,
    Each blossom pressing forward from behind,
    As though to be the first her brows to kiss!
The livelong day her dress hath perfect bliss,
    That now reveals her breast, now seems to bind:
    And that fair woven net of gold refined
    Rests on her cheek and throat in happiness!
Yet still more blissful seems to me the band
    Gilt at the tips, so sweetly doth it ring
    And clasp the bosom that it serves to lace:
Yea, and the belt to such as understand,
    Bound round her waist, saith: here I'd ever cling.—
    What would my arms do in that girdle's place?

XXI.

THE SILKWORM.

D' altrui pietoso.

Kind to the world, but to itself unkind,
    A worm is born, that dying noiselessly
    Despoils itself to clothe fair limbs, and be
    In its true worth by death alone divined.
Oh, would that I might die, for her to find
    Raiment in my outworn mortality!
    That, changing like the snake, I might be free
    To cast the slough wherein I dwell confined!
Nay, were it mine, that shaggy fleece that stays,
    Woven and wrought into a vestment fair,
    Around her beauteous bosom in such bliss!
All through the day she'd clasp me! Would I were
    The shoes that bear her burden! When the ways
    Were wet with rain, her feet I then should kiss!

XXII.

WAITING IN FAITH.

Se nel volto per gli occhi

If through the eyes the heart speaks clear and true,
    I have no stronger sureties than these eyes
    For my pure love. Prithee let them suffice,
    Lord of my soul, pity to gain from you.
More tenderly perchance than is my due,
    Your spirit sees into my heart, where rise
    The flames of holy worship, nor