  I never trod where Leonardo was, Then why art thou within this house of dreams, Strange Lady? From thy face a memory streams, Of things, forgotten now, that came to pass; The flower of Milan floated in thy glass: Thy dreaming smile; thy subtle loveliness! Ah! laughter airier far than ours, I guess, Lighted thy brow, fleeter than fire in grass. Yet, there is something fateful in thy face: Say, when the master caught it, didst thou know, Almost thy name would perish with thy grace, Thine artifices melt away like snow, And all the power within this painted space, Be his alone to hold and haunt us so? |
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