That knew not his own purpose—the red sun
Rose early over incense of bright mist,
That girded a pure sky of amethyst.
And who was he? A monk. And those who knew,
Yclept him Julio; but they were few.
And others named him as a nameless one,—
A dark, sad-hearted being, who had none
But bitter feelings, and a cast of sadness,
That fed the wildest of all curses—madness!
But he was, what none knew, of lordly line,