I am the Queen's indeed. Is she yet mine?
Ditizele—
A Voice, from within the cedar lattice.
Who is it calls me?
Danaë. Danaë.
The Voice. Yes?
Danaë.
The queen has spoilt my rose—throw me a young one.
A rosebud falls from the lattice: Danaë sets it in her hair.
Thanks, dear.... She has put up my hair awry—
It will remind her she put up my hair.
She shakes down her hair and knots it again, holding the rose-stalk in her mouth until she can replace it.
These Asiatic nights ruin the hair,
Their humid heat puts out its inner lights—
Mine waves with gleams no more than manes of Irân....
Now she has left the shore—now she will set
Her feet upon the stairs like setting-of teeth....
The child cries a little once: Danaë goes to it.
O, baby, the old silence of palaces
Is settling on you steadily. Your crying
Is shut within—and shall be farther enclosed.
One light small cry shows all so much too quiet.
Laodice, who has entered noiselessly and come close behind Danaë.