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 meas

One of thy choices or one of thy chances,

(Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at 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 not
As prosperous ones are treated, those who live
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 ill-usest
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 borrow
Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow.
All other men and women that this earth
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 leaven
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 superb
Great haughty Ottima; can rain disturb

Her Sebald's homage? All the while thy rain
Beats fiercest on her shrub-house window-pane,
He will but press the closer, breathe more warm
Against her cheek; how should she mind the storm?
And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloom
O'er Jules and Phene,-what care bride and groom
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 be
Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee.
Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve

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, close
And safe, the sooner that thou art morose,

Receives them. And yet once again, outbreak

In storm at night on Monsignor, they make

Such stir about,-whom they expect from Rome
To visit Asolo, his brothers' home,

And say here masses proper to release

A soul from pain,-what storm dares hurt his peace?
Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward
Thy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard.
But Pippa-just one such mischance would spoil
Her day that lightens the next twelvemonth's toil
At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil!
And here I let time slip for nought!
Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam, caught

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 bits

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 see

Morsel after morsel flee

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 ripple

Of ocean, bud there,-fairies watch unroll
Such turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperse
Thick red flame through that dusk green universe!
I am queen of thee, floweret!

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 names 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 uncioses,
I . . . what now?-give abundant cause for prate
About me-Ottima, I mean—of late,

Too bold, too confident she 'll still face down
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 sally
Out of Possagno church at noon?
Their house looks over Orcana valley:
Why should not I be the bride as soon
As Ottima? For I saw, beside,
Arrive last night that little bride-

Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash

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!