A Book of Myths, by Jean Lang - Umnet

And when grey night came down on that part of the sea that bears the
name of Icarus to this day, still there floated the body of the boy whose
dreams had come true. For only a little while had he known the
exquisite realisation of dreamed-of potentialities, for only a few hours
tasted the sweetness of perfect pleasure, and then, by an over-daring
flight, had lost it all for ever.
The sorrowing Nereids sang a dirge over him as he was swayed gently
hither and thither by the tide, and when the silver stars came out from
the dark firmament of heaven and were reflected in the blackness of the
sea at night, it was as though a velvet pall, silver-decked in his honour,
was spread around the slim white body with its outstretched snowy
wings.
So much had he dared--so little accomplished.
Is it not the oft-told tale of those who have followed Icarus? Yet who
can say that gallant youth has lived in vain when, as Icarus did, he has
breasted the very skies, has flown with fearless heart and soul to the
provinces of the deathless gods?--when, even for the space of a few of
the heart-beats of Time, he has tasted supreme power--the ecstasy of
illimitable happiness?
CLYTIE
The sunbeams are basking on the high walls of the old garden--smiling
on the fruit that grows red and golden in their warmth. The bees are
humming round the bed of purple heliotrope, and drowsily murmuring
in the shelter of the soft petals of the blush roses whose sweetness
brings back the fragrance of days that are gone. On the old grey sundial
the white-winged pigeons sleepily croon as they preen their snowy
plumage, and the Madonna lilies hang their heads like a procession of
white-robed nuns who dare not look up from telling their beads until
the triumphal procession of an all-conquering warrior has gone by.
What can they think of that long line of tall yellow flowers by the
garden wall, who turn their faces sunwards with an arrogant assurance,