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Here underneath these venerable oaks；
Wrinkled and brown and gnarled like them with age；
A brother of the monastery sits；
Lost in his meditations。 What may be
The questions that perplex； the hopes that cheer him？
Good…evening； holy father。
MONK。
God be with you。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
Pardon a stranger if he interrupt
Your meditations。
MONK。
It was but a dream；
The old； old dream； that never will come true；
The dream that all my life I have been dreaming；
And yet is still a dream。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
All men have dreams：
I have had mine； but none of them came true；
They were but vanity。 Sometimes I think
The happiness of man lies in pursuing；
Not in possessing； for the things possessed
Lose half their value。 Tell me of your dream。
MONK。
The yearning of my heart； my sole desire；
That like the sheaf of Joseph stands up right；
While all the others bend and bow to it；
The passion that torments me； and that breathes
New meaning into the dead forms of prayer；
Is that with mortal eyes I may behold
The Eternal City。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
Rome？
MONK。
There is but one；
The rest are merely names。 I think of it
As the Celestial City； paved with gold；
And sentinelled with angels。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
Would it were。
I have just fled from it。 It is beleaguered
By Spanish troops； led by the Duke of Alva。
MONK。
But still for me 't is the Celestial City；
And I would see it once before I die。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
Each one must bear his cross。
MONK。
Were it a cross
That had been laid upon me； I could bear it；
Or fall with it。 It is a crucifix；
I am nailed hand and foot； and I am dying！
MICHAEL ANGELO。
What would you see in Rome？
MONK。
His Holiness。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
Him that was once the Cardinal Caraffa？
You would but see a man of fourscore years；
With sunken eyes； burning like carbuncles；
Who sits at table with his friends for hours；
Cursing the Spaniards as a race of Jews
And miscreant Moors。 And with what soldiery
Think you he now defends the Eternal City？
MONK。
With legions of bright angels。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
So he calls them；
And yet in fact these bright angelic legions
Are only German Lutherans。
MONK； crossing himself。
Heaven protect us？
MICHAEL ANGELO。
What further would you see？
MONK。
The Cardinals；
Going in their gilt coaches to High Mass。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
Men do not go to Paradise in coaches。
MONK。
The catacombs； the convents； and the churches；
The ceremonies of the Holy Week
In all their pomp； or； at the Epiphany；
The Feast of the Santissima Bambino
At Ara Coeli。 But I shall not see them。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
These pompous ceremonies of the Church
Are but an empty show to him who knows
The actors in them。 Stay here in your convent；
For he who goes to Rome may see too much。
What would you further？
MONK。
I would see the painting
of the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
The smoke of incense and of altar candles
Has blackened it already。
MONK。
Woe is me！
Then I would hear Allegri's Miserere；
Sung by the Papal choir。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
A dismal dirge！
I am an old； old man； and I have lived
In Rome for thirty years and more； and know
The jarring of the wheels of that great world；
Its jealousies； its discords； and its strife。
Therefore I say to you； remain content
Here in your convent； here among your woods；
Where only there is peace。 Go not to Rome。
There was of old a monk of Wittenberg
Who went to Rome； you may have heard of him；
His name was Luther； and you know what followed。
＇The convent bell rings。
MONK； rising。
It is the convent bell； it rings for vespers。
Let us go in； we both will pray for peace。
VIII
THE DEAD CHRIST。
MICHAEL ANGELO'S studio。 MICHAEL ANGELO； with a light； working
upon the Dead Christ。 Midnight。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
O Death； why is it I cannot portray
Thy form and features？ Do I stand too near thee？
Or dost thou hold my hand； and draw me back；
As being thy disciple； not thy master？
Let him who knows not what old age is like
Have patience till it comes； and he will know。
I once had skill to fashion Life and Death
And Sleep； which is the counterfeit of Death；
And I remember what Giovanni Strozzi
Wrote underneath my statue of the Night
In San Lorenzo； ah； so long ago！
Grateful to me is sleep！ More grateful now
Than it was then； for all my friends are dead；
And she is dead； the noblest of them all。
I saw her face； when the great sculptor Death；
Whom men should call Divine； had at a blow
Stricken her into marble； and I kissed
Her cold white hand。 What was it held me back
From kissing her fair forehead； and those lips；
Those dead； dumb lips？ Grateful to me is sleep！
Enter GIORGIO VASARI。
GIORGIO。
Good…evening； or good…morning； for I know not
Which of the two it is。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
How came you in？
GIORGIO。
Why； by the door； as all men do。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
Ascanio
Must have forgotten to bolt it。
GIORGIO。
Probably。
Am I a spirit； or so like a spirit；
That I could slip through bolted door or window？
As I was passing down the street； I saw
A glimmer of light； and heard the well…known chink
Of chisel upon marble。 So I entered；
To see what keeps you from your bed so late。
MICHAEL ANGELO； coming forward with the lamp。
You have been revelling with your boon companions；
Giorgio Vasari； and you come to me
At an untimely hour。
GIORGIO。
The Pope hath sent me。
His Holiness desires to see again
The drawing you once showed him of the dome
Of the Basilica。
MICHAEL ANGELO。
We will look for it。
GIORGIO。
What is the marble group that glimmers there
Behind you？
MICHAEL ANGELO。
Nothing； and yet everything；
As one may take it。 It is my own tomb；
That I am building。
GIORGIO。
Do not hide it from me。
By our long friendship and the love I bear you；
Refuse me not！
MICHAEL ANGELO； letting fall the lamp。
Life hath become to me
An empty theatre；its lights extinguished；
The music silent； and the actors gone；
And I alone sit musing on the scenes
That once have been。 I am so old that Death
Oft plucks me by the cloak； to come with him
And some day； like this lamp； shall I fall down；
And my last spark of life will be extinguished。
Ah me！ ah me！ what darkness of despair！
So near to dea