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.