Leonardo’s “Monna Lisa”

Make thyself known, Sibyl, or let despair Of knowing thee be absolute: I wait Hour-long and waste a soul. What word of fate Hides ’twixt the lips which smile and still forbear? Secret perfection! Mystery too fair! Tangle the sense no more, lest I should hate The delicate tyranny, the inviolate Poise of thy folded hands, the fallen hair. Nay, nay,—I wrong thee with rough words; still be Serene, victorious, inaccessible; Still smile but speak not; lightest irony Lurk ever ’neath thy eyelids’ shadow; still O’ertop our knowledge; Sphinx of Italy, Allure us and reject us at thy will!