Doubtful of his mind, that so could mumble,
Endlessly, at nothing, maybe nothing.
But it was never nothing. Aphrodite,
Going between Hephaestus’ bed and his,
Was a changed goddess, bearing every charm
Of beauty she possessed, that he once more
Might madden. Dora came there too, he thought,
And wept in her first figure, the demure one,
The thin and still one, that was his again—
“It is, it is!” the whisper at his side