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Updated: May 4, 2025
I am not one who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk Of friends, who live within an easy walk, Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight: And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, These all wear out of me, like forms, with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Affecting above all is their dependence on the stranger, the whimsical stranger who swims out of their ken, yet whom Providence sometimes restores. The best of them at any rate are in their line great artists. On the swarming feast- days, on the strange feast-night of the Redentore, their steering is a miracle of ease.
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