When he had finished she said:-- "It is very beautiful, Antony--but it is not written for me." "What can you mean, Beatrice?
Who else can it be written for ?" "To the Image of me that you have set up in my place." "Beatrice, are you going mad ?" "It is quite true, all the same.

Time will show.

Perhaps you don't know it yourself as yet, but you will before long." "But, Beatrice, the poem shows its own origin.

Has your image blue eyes, or curiously coiled hair--" "Oh, yes, of course, you thought of me.

You filled in from me.