By the prophet-cradling Nile when Lotus buds
Upbreathing blow new seasons of old dreams.
Not e'en our Venus, dove-led, invisible,
More softly moves to Paphos wood than she
O'er sleeping earth. Her wings lead on the light,
And when she lifts them dawn awakes.
Ara. Fair Isis!
Aris. She seeks her brother, self-created, slain
By his own pride, for he was God of All.
Her tears, like weeping music, sweeten earth,