To Ariadne

I am your elder lover.
I know not what to say.
What image could recover
your manner and your way?
For what is like you, who
are colored like all things,
Taking their colors to
the dark quilt of your wings?
Should I describe your speech,
whose thousandth part might be
Fractioned again, and each
more branched than any tree?
When nothing that you are
speaks openly or free,
How may so dark a star
be gauged by one like me?
My elder mistress, you
resemble but one kind:
The winding of the clue,
the labyrinth of mind.