Read it through once

--That is--you’ll not mistake an idle word Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, Got wot, Tasting the air this spicy night which turns The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! Oh, the church knows! don’t misreport me, now! {340} It’s natural a poor monk out of bounds Should have his apt word to excuse himself: And hearken how I plot to make amends. I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece . . .There’s for you! Give me six months, then go, see Something in Sant’ Ambrogio’s! Bless the nuns! They want a cast o’ my office. I shall paint God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood, Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet {350} As puff on puff of grated orris-root When ladies crowd to church at midsummer. And then i’ the front, of course a saint or two-- Saint John, because he saves the Florentines, Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white The convent’s friends and gives them a long day, And Job, I must have him there past mistake, The man of Uz (and Us without the z, Painters who need his patience). Well, all these Secured at their devotion, up shall come {360} Out of a corner when you least expect, As one by a dark stair into a great light, Music and talking, who but Lippo! I!-- Mazed, motionless, and moon-struck--I’m the man! Back I shrink--what is this I see and hear? I, caught up with my monk’s things by mistake, My old serge gown and rope that goes all round, I, in this presence, this pure company! Where’s a hole, where’s a corner for escape? Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing {370} Forward, puts out a soft palm--“Not so fast!” --Addresses the celestial presence, “nay-- He made you and devised you, after all, Though he’s none of you! could Saint John there, draw-- His camel-hair make up a painting-brush? We come to brother Lippo for all that, Iste perfecit opus!” So, all smile-- I shuffle sideways with my blushing face Under the cover of a hundred wings Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you’re gay {380} And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut, Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops The hot-head husband! Thus I scuttle off To some safe bench behind, not letting go The palm of her, the little lily thing That spoke the good word for me in the nick, Like the Prior’s niece. . .Saint Lucy, I would say. And so all’s saved for me, and for the church A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence! Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights! {390} The street’s hushed, and I know my own way back, Don’t fear me! There’s the gray beginning. Zooks!