I feel it deep. This is the hour for that
Which has been christened in your lovely phrase
Your “inmost self-communing.” I will not
Sully its sanctitude. Though Aphrodite,
Kind-smiling on this oversoon approach,
Threw me for your delight the golden girdle
She never gives away and scarcely lends,
I’d come some other time and hand it you.
Rhod.
No more. That sounds too sweet and gives me fear;