And who will curse or kick him for his pains; Which gentleman, processional and fine, The droppings of the wax to sell again, 120 Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped How say I?- nay, which dog bites, which lets drop With the little children round him in a row Of admiration, half for his beard and half For that white anger of his victim's son His bone from the heap of offal in the Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, Signing himself with the other because of Christ street: Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, He learns the look of things, and none the less 125 155 Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising Or say there's beauty with no soul at God, all 215 (I never saw it — put the case the same): If you get simple beauty and naught else, You get about the best thing God in vents It makes me mad to see what men shall do And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us, The mountain round it and the sky Nor blank; it means intensely, and means above, good: For, don't you mark? we're made so that "Already not one phiz of your three slaves we love 300 Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, But's scratched and prodded to our heart's |