So sang the Aryans. But better pleased thee Hymettus,
Fresh with the twenty brooks whose banks smelt to heaven of thyme;
Better pleased thee on Hymettus the nimble-limbed, mortal huntsman,
Who with the buskined foot pressed the first dews of the morn.
The heavens bent down. A sweet blush tinged the forest and the hills,
When thou, O Goddess, didst descend.
But thou descendedst not; rather did Cephalus, drawn by thy kiss,
Mount, all alert, through the air, fair as a beautiful god,—
Mount on the amorous winds and amid the sweet odours,
While all around were the nuptials of flowers and the marriage of streams.