Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it.
Guido Reni dying, all Bologna
Cried, and the world cried too “Ours, the treasure!”
Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.
V.
Dante once prepared to paint an angel:
Whom to please? You whisper “Beatrice.”
While he mused and traced it and retraced it,
(Peradventure with a pen corroded
Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for,