40 
THE TALE OF ARCHAIS 
Our songs are awful, that the heavens shrink back 
Into their void of black. 
We worship at a sad insatiate shrine— 
O Cypris, none of thine ! 
 
 
Scarcely the song did cease when out of heaven 
A little cloud grew near, all thunder-riven, 
Scarred by the lightning, torn of ravaging wind ; 
Upon it sate the herald, who should find 
The home of Aphrodite, and should bring 
A message from high Zeus.  The mighty king 
Had bidden him to speed.  His wings drew nigh 
And hushed the last faint echoed melody 
With silver waving.  As the messenger 
Of mighty Zeus descending unto her 
He stood before her, and called loud her name. 
Wrapped in a cloud of amber-scented flame 
Befitting his high office ;  but his word, 
Too terrible for mortals, passed unheard 
To Cypris’ ear alone.  She bowed her head 
And bade her nymphs prepare a royal bed 
Where he should rest awhile ;  and, being gone, 
Cypris and Charicles were left alone. 
An aureole of purple round her brow