Sublime

Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off To some safe bench behind, not letting go The palm of her, the little lily thing That spoke the good word for me in the nick, Like the Prior’s niece … Saint Lucy, I would say. And so all’s saved for me, and for the church A pretty picture gained.

Make his flesh liker and his soul more like, Both in their order? Take the prettiest face, The Prior’s niece … patron-saint — is it so pretty You can’t discover if it means hope, fear, Sorrow or joy? won’t beauty go with these? Suppose I’ve made her eyes all right and blue, Can’t I take breath and try to add life’s flash, And then add soul and heig

Make them forget there’s such a thing as flesh. Your business is to paint the souls of men — Man’s soul, and it’s a fire, smoke … no, it’s not … It’s vapour done up like a new-born babe — (In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth)

Quite a strange man, thought James, watching him go – but what a relief to discover he still contained the capacity to be taken by surprise.