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Rh Well, well! my father was an Englishman: My mother’s blood in me is not so strong That I should bear this stress of Tuscan noon And keep my wits. The town, there, seems to seethe In this Medæan boil-pot of the sun, And all the patient hills are bubbling round As if a prick would leave them flat. Does heaven Keep far off, not to set us in a blaze? Not so,—let drag your fiery fringes, heaven, And burn us up to quiet! Ah, we know Too much here, not to know what’s best for peace; We have too much light here, not to want more fire To purify and end us. We talk, talk, Conclude upon divine philosophies, And get the thanks of men for hopeful books; Whereat we take our own life up, and. . pshaw! Unless we piece it with another’s life, (A yard of silk to carry out our lawn) As well suppose my little handkerchief Would cover Samminiato, church and all, If out I threw it past the cypresses, As, in this ragged, narrow life of mine, Contain my own conclusions. But at least We’ll shut up the persiani, and sit down, And when my head’s done aching, in the cool, Write just a word to Kate and Carrington. May joy be with them! she has chosen well, And he not ill. I should be glad, I think,