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A Book of Myths, by Jean Lang - Umnet

A Book of Myths, by Jean Lang - Umnet

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<strong>of</strong> her dreams, his voice was as the voice <strong>of</strong> the sea as it calls to the<br />

shore in the moonlit hours, as the bird that sings in the darkness <strong>of</strong> a<br />

tropic night to its longing mate.<br />

"Marpessa!" he cried, "Marpessa! wilt thou not come to me? No woe<br />

nor trouble, never any pain can touch me. Yet woe indeed was mine<br />

when first I saw thy fairest face. For even now dost thou hasten to<br />

sorrow, to darkness, to the dark-shadowed tomb. Thou art but mortal!<br />

thy beauty is short-lived. Thy love for mortal man shall quickly fade<br />

and die. Come to me, Marpessa, and my kisses on your lips shall make<br />

thee immortal! Together we shall bring the sunbeams to a cold, dark<br />

land! Together shall we coax the spring flowers from the still, dead<br />

earth! Together we shall bring to men the golden harvest, and deck the<br />

trees <strong>of</strong> autumn in our liveries <strong>of</strong> red and gold. I love thee,<br />

Marpessa--not as mere mortal loves do I love thee. Come to me,<br />

Marpessa--my Love--my Desire!"<br />

When his voice was silent, it seemed as if the very earth itself with all<br />

its thousand echoes still breathed his words: "Marpessa--my Love--my<br />

Desire."<br />

Abashed before the god's entreaties stood Idas. And the heart <strong>of</strong><br />

Marpessa was torn as she heard the burning words <strong>of</strong> the beautiful<br />

Apollo still ringing through her head, and saw her mortal lover, silent,<br />

white-lipped, gazing first at the god and then into her own pale face. At<br />

length he spoke:<br />

"After such argument what can I plead? Or what pale promise make?<br />

Yet since it is In woman to pity rather than to aspire, A little I will<br />

speak. I love thee then Not only for thy body packed with sweet Of all<br />

this world, that cup <strong>of</strong> brimming June, That jar <strong>of</strong> violet wine set in the<br />

air, That palest rose sweet in the night <strong>of</strong> life; Nor for that stirring<br />

bosom all besieged By drowsing lovers, or thy perilous hair; Nor for<br />

that face that might indeed provoke Invasion <strong>of</strong> old cities; no, nor all<br />

Thy freshness stealing on me like strange sleep. Nor for this only do I<br />

love thee, but Because Infinity upon thee broods; And thou art full <strong>of</strong><br />

whispers and <strong>of</strong> shadows. Thou meanest what the sea has striven to say<br />

So long, and yearned up the cliffs to tell; Thou art what all the winds

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