Shrivelled and scorched, are useless evermore?
Or wilt thou draw the screen and close the bars,
That the poor baffled moth may seek the stars.
LOVE IS BLIND
“Who knocks at the portal—so late?” whispered the little Greek maid.
“That may depend,” replied a clear voice outside, “some say I am a friend, some a foe.”
The heart of the little Greek maid beat fast in her bosom. For three nights she had heard this voice and for three nights a beautiful youth, with silvery wings and his face concealed by a silver gauze, had appeared to her in a dream.
“No, no, I have been forbidden to open the portal,” said the little Greek maid.