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.