human
He who works in fresco, steals a hair-brush, Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly, Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, Makes a strange art of an art familiar, Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets; He who blows thro' bronze may breathe thro' silver, Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess; He who writes may write for once, as I do.
gpt
which the sensible world veils and the senses miss. But he cared for them also, and yet more, as expressions of the artist's own
human
that absolute truth. And he cared for them also and not less, without regard to anything they expressed, as simple outflows of vitality, however grotesque or capricious. His own eye and ear continually provoked his hand to artistic experiments and activities. During the last years in Italy his passion for modelling even threatened to divert him from poetry; and his wife playfully lamented that the
gpt
produced only casts, which he broke on completion, and no more Men and Women. And his own taste in art drew him, notoriously, to work in which the striving hand was palpable,--whether it was a triumphant _tour de force_ like Cellini's Perseus, in the Loggia--their daily banquet in the early days at Florence; or the half-articulate utterances of
human
like those
gpt
Pre-Giotto pictures which surrounded them in the salon of Casa Guidi,