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Yet love its very unreality,
Catching a fancy'd coolness from its blue,
A feign'd refreshment from its waving palms,
Content, so that it veil the burning sand
That rings us round about, inevitably.
Yves.(To Sophron):
And since you say that unattainable
Your Truth, that is the only Beauty dwells
Thron'd on a high crag, out of reach, afar,
Past waters ferryless, unfordable,
Unnavigable lakes and bridgeless streams,
How know you but that some delusive mist
Colour the sheer peak to a lovely hue,
A black rock masquing in a painted veil,
Unlovely, barren?
Celadon:
Fairer, better far
Than sterile Truth, a fertile Fantasy!
A lovely dream than dun reality!
