Like the fish of the bright and twittering fin,
Bright fish! diving deep as high soars the lark,
So, far, far, far, doth the maiden swim,
Wild song, wild light, in still ocean’s dark.
“What maiden, minstrel?” cried Media.
“None of these,” answered Yoomy, pointing out a shallop gliding near.
“The damsels three:—Taji, they pursue you yet.” That still canoe drew nigh, the Iris in its prow.
Gliding slowly by, one damsel flung a Venus-car, the leaves yet fresh.
Said Yoomy—“Fly to love.”
The second maiden flung a pallid blossom, buried in hemlock leaves.
Said Yoomy, starting—“I have wrought a death.”
Then came showering Venus-cars, and glorious moss-roses numberless, and odorous handfuls of Verbena.
Said Yoomy—“Yet fly, oh fly to me: all rosy joys and sweets are mine.”