1
Across the red cliff, dotted in, stand the apparent colonnades.
The sun will know the truth of them,
How far they resemble distant basilicas or market-halls,
Whether an entrance might be concealed.
He will march through them fearlessly, knowing there is nothing behind him, not even blackness,
For he never sees darkness,
Cannot conceive of shadow,
Has no need even to imagine a smudge.
He is where all such knowledge starts,
Semp fice fume, somma luce,
All hues in all proportions,
Undivided and in no need of difference to see.

2
Compare the painter's muddle:
'The apparent colonnades';
The locomotive all at sea with steam and dusk, the firebox over-dramatised upon the viaduct;
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