What was known, was known. They asked <br />the artist who had sat all that bright morning, cool upon the hill, <br />to draw the trees in front of him, as sunlight crept <br />among the leaves, now here, now there, <br />lighting, upon the moss, the dewdrops one by one <br />sun-sipped; when the unicorn was, in a moment, there; <br />there, detached, yet offered; they asked the artist how it was. <br /> <br />He said that as the sun moved round and caught the leaves, <br />a love arose; so that when that creature was, so quietly, there, <br />it was no different from the love. <br />At first it stood quite still, <br />as if it knew what made it easier for him; <br />then later, walked around, sometimes its head raised so that the <br />sunlight caught its horn; moved, so that the artist then might know <br />what moved it. It was love. <br /> <br />Some asked eagerly: was it then as if the creature <br />drew itself? The artist could not answer. That was not untrue; and yet, <br />it was not quite like that. Rather, what was known, was known. <br />Known gently; meekly; sweetly. It seems <br />there is no other way for love.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/unicorn-3/
