The Death of Joy—the fatal flower of blood.     

       I know not. This I know, I have not trod     

       The quiet vale where grows the flower of white.     

  

       Like an unwise distiller of perfume     

       I've blended each new fragrance as it came,     

       Made something perfect for a day—two days;     

       Then ruined all by adding something fresh.     

       First I would be a scholar, so I learned     

       Latin and Greek, and Mathematic Law.     

       Then I would be a poet, so I wrote     

       "Chi non puô quel che vuol, quel che puo voglia;     

       Che quel che non si puô folle è volere.     

       Adunque saggio l'uomo è da tenere,     

       Che da quel che non puô sua vogler toglia."     

       I could not live the wisdom which I taught,     

       So I must be a master of design     

       And studied sculpture with Verocchio,     

       Verocchio who had his dusty shop     

       On Amo's banks in grand Lorenzo's time.     

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