1 88 THE FRIENDSHIP OF NATURE 



have no issue of her own. At her 

 touch all growing things blaze with a 

 hectic fire, but their life-blood dries 

 away. And as she chants snatches of 

 broken tunes, that are merely echoes, 

 her voice drops to a cricket's droning, 

 and the silent birds troop off in appre- 

 hension. She seems so fair, and yet 

 she wears upon her face Time's rav- 

 ages; and the gray hollows round the 

 eyes, the treacherous nostril's curve, 

 the too bright lip, all token the ash of 

 passion. With one hand she offers 

 tempting fruits, while the other holds 

 the leash of her messengers — two gaunt 

 hounds, the black frost and the white. 

 She must, for her mother, weave a 

 gorgeous robe for a night's brief 

 revelling, but even as she dyes it bright 

 with every subtle tint the fabric drops 

 away between her hands, leaving them 

 empty. 



•X" 



