In this work I reproduced my mistress's beauty and my love's
significance. Having learned the language of nature, I translated from
her hieroglyphic pages in characters of flame. With rash hands I
stripped false seemings from material beauty, and limned the naked
divinity of Idea. Shorn by degrees in my strife of youth and strength
and passion, I wound them in my work--toiling like paltry larvæ. And it
was done--retouched and lingered over long, apotheosized by mighty
effort. So I offered it to my Fate.

Never before, as at that moment, had Aspiro seemed so worthy to be won
at any cost. I trembled as I laid my work before her--she so transcended
Beauty. But still I hoped. I waited for her dawning smile and
outstretched hand, ready to die of attained longing when these should be
bestowed.

She, gleaming like ice, transfixed me coldly, and, slighting with her
glance my work, asked: 'Can you do no more?'

I answered with weary hopelessness: 'No more.'

How cold her laugh was!

'And have I waited on you all these years for this?'

I echoed drearily: 'For this.'

'Well, blot it out, and try again, if you would please me,' said Aspiro.

With spent strength I cast myself at her feet.