Those crescent moons with notched and burning rims

That strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood,
Impatient of the azure—and that day

In March, a double rainbow stopped the storm—
May's warm, slow, yellow moonlit summer nights—
Gone are they, but I have them in my soul

Mother. (He will not go!)

Luigi. You smile at me! 'Tis true,—

Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastliness,
Environ my devotedness as quaintly
As round about some antique altar wreathe
The rose festoons, goats' horns, and oxen's skulls.

Mother. See now: you reach the city, you must cross

His threshold—how?

Luigi. Oh, that's if we conspired!
Then would come pains in plenty, as you guess—
But guess not how the qualities most fit
For such an office, qualities I have,
Would little stead me otherwise employed,

Yet prove of rarest merit here, here only.
Every one knows for what his excellence
Will serve, but no one ever will consider
For what his worst defect might serve; and yet
Have you not seen me range our coppice yonder
In search of a distorted ash?—it happens
The wry spoilt branch's a natural perfect bow!
Fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precautioned man

Arriving at the palace on my errand!
No, no! I have a handsome dress packed up—
White satin here, to set off my black hair.
In I shall march—for you may watch your life out
Behind thick walls, make friends there to betray you;