None knows which colour     

       Till it is dead;     

       Love gives forth fragrance     

       Pure as God's breath;     

       Lust in Us dying     

       Yields the gatherer death.     

  

 [Leonardo da Vinci speaks] 

  

       And had Lorenzo sung those words to me     

       His voice had had no more familiar sound;     

       Had he turned back from lordly Paradise     

       To urge me on in my pursuit of Joy,     

       Knowing its flower almost within my hand,     

       He had not said those words more earnestly.     

       Lo, even now he stands without and I,     

       By leaning forward, may discerrn his face.     

 [Rises, goes to the window; looks out] 

  

       Nothing; the sky is covered with a cloud,     

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