"Love glanced at him unsteadily, with a countenance in which there
was somewhat of anxiety, somewhat of disdain; and cried, 'Go away!
go away! nothing that thou touchest, lives!' 'Say rather, child!'
replied the advancing form, and advancing grew loftier and
statelier, 'say rather that nothing of beautiful or of glorious
lives its own true life until my wing hath passed over it.'
"Love pouted, and rumpled and bent down with his forefinger the
stiff short feathers on his arrow-head, but replied not. Although
he frowned worse than ever, and at me, I dreaded him less and
less, and scarcely looked towards him. The milder and calmer
Genius, the third, in proportion as I took courage to contemplate
him, regarded me with more and more complacency. He held neither
flower nor arrow as the others did, but throwing back the clusters
of dark curls that overshadowed his countenance, he presented to
me his hand, openly and benignly. I shrank on looking at him so
near, and yet I sighed to love him. He smiled, not without an
expression of pity, at perceiving my diffidence, my timidity; for
I remembered how soft was the hand of Sleep, how warm and
entrancing was Love's.
"By degrees I became ashamed of my ingratitude, and turning my
face away, I held out my arms, and I felt my neck within his; the
coolness of freshest morning breathed around; the heavens seemed to
open above me, while the beautiful cheek of my deliverer rested on
my head.
Pages:
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92