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Rh And so, henceforth, I put the shutters up; Auroras must not come to spoil my dark.’

He smiled so feebly, with an empty hand Stretched sideway from me,—as indeed he looked To any one but me to give him help,— And, while the moon came suddenly out full, The double rose of our Italian moons, Sufficient, plainly, for the heaven and earth, (The stars, struck dumb and washed away in dews Of golden glory, and the mountains steeped In divine languor) he, the man, appeared So pale and patient, like the marble man A sculptor puts his personal sadness in To join his grandeur of ideal thought,— As if his mallet struck me from my height Of passionate indignation, I who had risen Pale,—doubting, paused,. . . . Was Romney mad indeed? Had all this wrong of heart made sick the brain?

Then quiet, with a sort of tremulous pride, ‘Go, cousin,’ I said coldly. ‘A farewell Was sooner spoken ’twixt a pair of friends In those old days, than seems to suit you now: And if, since then, I’ve writ a book or two, I’m somewhat dull still in the manly art Of phrase and metaphrase. Why, any man Can carve a score of white Loves out of snow, As Buonarroti down in Florence there, And set them on the wall in some safe shade,