There, where the blood and tears faded into the cold and rain, kneeled a wretched man. Wistful eyes looking upon the stars and moon above. There, where remains of snow lay instead of the gentle laburnum petals, stood the artist under his umbrella. His steps approached the grieving beauty; his hands abated the grip of those which strangled his pale neck, and replaced each wound with flowers. And in that night of dark disgrace, the boy so delicate, so rare, would not die. For the artist took his pain and made it his, owned it, and turned it into art.