XXI

Yes, Petrarch, we most certainly believe That you who wore your heart upon your sleeve, Did love your love for Laura, and the eye Of public fame, at which your sonnets fly, Like skyward larks that court the genial sun; And o’er the tears you treasured one by one You downward bent with all a statue’s grace To see reflections of your tearful face. But none redeemed by love will e’er consent To say you tasted of love’s sacrament.

Yes

p. 35XXII TO A LADY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

p. 35

XXII

IN MEMORY OF METASTASIO

IN MEMORY OF METASTASIO

Nice, though your lips of coral Now are dust; And the schoolboy scans the moral Graven on your broken bust

Nice

In the gilt barocco chapel After Mass; Where ten coats with broidered lappel Bent when Nice used to pass.

Still perchance your spirit hovers Where the lute And the voices of your lovers Chimed, but now are gone and mute.

p. 36Where the lonely arbour’s hollow Shadier grows, And the butterflies can follow Fearlessly to kiss the rose.

p. 36

And you smile because a poet À la mode Flouted you; and then, we know it, Wrote an abject palinode.

For your hands, though light as feathers, Held him tight: Love was made to last all weathers, Not to change with day and night.

p. 37XXIII THE “LIBERAL” DIVINE

p. 37

XXIII

The “middle path” meets every need, The Stagirite and Buddha say; I won’t doubt more than half the creed Nor wear a costume wholly lay.

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