I
A CONCERT OF GIORGIONE
Giorgio Barbarelli, called Giorgione, had a clavichord in his studio (I, too, know a subtle painter who has a small ancient piano in his), to make music o' nights when the light had gone from Venice.
This evening he and his pupil Paris, a boy, stood at the window.
This evening he and his pupil Paris, a boy, stood at the window.
PARIS
THE sky's last rose falls into the water;
It sinks and melts and, melting, sinks once more.
The far bell tilts, and a stale star or two
Left over from last night blink like the bell.
A ceaseless fountain of flies is rising and falling—
They are as still as one more dimness falling
On the last water where my heart feels falling. . . . . .
O, falling, falling, till the world is done.
GIORGIONE
The work is finished; paint could but imitate it.
This is no vision to create anew
The painter's way; perfection comes but once,
