human
Spite of thick air and closed doors God told him it was June,--when harebells grow, And all that kings could ever give or take Would not be precious as those blooms to me.
gpt
Browningesque division of them all--was shaped under the sway of this master-passion; the noble army of
human
who succeed and of
gpt
who fail, baffled artists and rejected lovers who mount to higher things on stepping-stones of their frustrated selves, like the heroes of _Old Painters in Florence_, and _The Last Ride Together_, and _The Lost Mistress_; and on the other hand, the artists and lovers who fail for want of this saving energy, like the Duke and Lady of the _Statue and the Bust_, like Andrea del Sarto and the Unknown Painter. But his very preoccupation with Art and with Love itself sprang mainly from his peculiar joy in the ardent putting-forth of soul. No kind of vivid consciousness was indifferent to him, but the luxurious receptivity of the spectator or of a passively beloved mistress touched him little, compared with the faintest pulsation of the artist's
human
of the lover's passion for union with another soul. When he describes effects of music or painting, he passes instinctively over to the standpoint of the composer or the performer; shows us Hugues and Andrea themselves at the organ, or the easel; and instead of feeling the world turned into
gpt
by the magic of the cuckoo or the thrush, strikes out playful theories of the professional methods of these songsters,--the cuckoo's monopoly of the
human
the thrush's wise way of repeating himself