Page:Pacchiarotto and how he worked in distemper; with other poems - Browning (1876).djvu/86

21.
I want to know a butcher paints,
 A baker rhymes for his pursuit,
Candlestick-maker much acquaints
 His soul with song, or, haply mute,
 Blows out his brains upon the flute!

22.
But—shop each day and all day long!
 Friend, your good angel slept, your star
Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong!
 From where these sorts of treasures are,
 There should our hearts be—Christ, how far!