Now there is by the path through the plain, as ye draw to the temple anigh,
A poplar that waveth his tresses of countless leaves on high;
And thereon had the crows ever-babbling pitched as it were their tent,
Whereof one, clapping her pinions, beneath her as these twain went, {930}
The counsel of Hêrê chanted, mid high boughs swayed to and fro:
‘Lo there, what a pitiful seer!—even that which the children know
His wit can in no wise conceive, how that no word sweet and dear
Maiden will murmur to man, while strangers be loitering near!
Avaunt, vile prophet and witless!—on thee not the Cyprian Queen,
On thee not the gentle Loves of their kindness are breathing, I ween!’