and she waved a moonbeam hand as he whispered and, springing as lightly between the rocks and boughs as a leaping stream, was gone.
Then suddenly his lute ceased as though to give place to a better and a lady, robed in white, came cradling a lute to her bosom and singing—O words melodious, melting into heavenly numbers—I believe I knew at the blessed moment what they were but now have they slipt my gross understanding. For ’twas indeed the choice Myrrha—O Music, O maid divine, walking soundless as flowing water and bathing in her own sweet harmonies as a Naiad in her native crystal.
And even as she past, unheeding her worshipper, Mr. Herrick’s lute resumed the strain.
And now past two fair ladies, close entwined as Hermia and Helena, whispering each in the other’s ear and casting oblique and tender looks upon their poet, the one in a yellow robe like a spring daffodil and the other in a most pure violet, perfume-breathing as the hue she wore. And the first was crowned with may, white as ivory exprest in blossom, and my heart said for me, “Corinna, who will go a-maying while the world lasts.
“She that puts forth her foliage to be seen,
And comes forth like the spring-time fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora.”
And indeed she past me so near that I caught the almond-sweet breath of her wreath.
And the other sure was the lady Dianeme, for I knew her by her dancing shining eyes and the bough of blossomed laylock in her hand.
“Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes.”—