Most human calculations end in loss,
And every one who has a plan devised,
Is like a foolish walker on a rope,
First balancing on this side, then on that,
Hazarding much to gain a paltry end;
And if the rope of calculation breaks,
Or if the foot slip, added to mishap
Come the world's jeers and gibes; and so 'tis best.
Should half men's schemings find success at last,
I fear God's plans would have but narrow room.
(Michael Gianni, now I know your name,
This premonition gives the hint to me
To trip you in your studied subtleties.
You will not win my Grace, who loves me still;
You will not dare to kiss her hand again.)
V.
Beneath a rustic arbor, near her house,
Linked with sweet converse, sit two shadowed forms.
The new sword moon against the violet sky
Is held aloft, by one white arm of cloud
Raised from the sombre shoulder of a hill.
My Grace and I are sitting in the bower,
And down upon my breast and girdling arm
Is strewn pure gold—no alloy mixes it—
The pure ore of her lovable gold hair.
The cunning weavers of Arabia,
Who seek to shuttle sunshine in their silk,
