31 6 POFULAR TALES OF FLOWERS 
I'hey calleed her the nymph whose motions were more 
graceful than the flowers of the Acacia, that drooped and 
swung in the breeze — who never spoke but what the very 
air seemed to hold in its breath, as if to listen to the 
music of her sweet voice — who never appeared but the 
flocks left off grazing to look upon her — nor ever moved 
without the flowers bending their heads as if to follow her. 
Psyche, on whose head the timid butterflies alighted, 
around whose parted lips the bees flew murmuring, as 
if they wanted to deposit the money which they bore to 
the rich stores that were hidden within them; Psyche, who 
garlanded the ivory of her neck with the trailing flowers 
of the i'ea-blossom, until the parted buds flew back from 
her shoulders like wings, as she ran along, followed by 
the butterflies, when they went out to play together. 
Love leant upon his bow enraptured, and resolved 
within himself that he would find out where this beau- 
tiful flower of Arcadia concealed herself ; for he soon 
learnt that her abode was unknown to the shepherds, who 
but occasionally caught a passing glimpse of her beauty. 
Over many a pasture and many a plain did Love wander 
in search of Psyche ; through long avenues of mighty 
oaks, and fragrant arbours of Acacia, parting the trail- 
ing tendrils of the vetches with his pointed arrow as he 
forced his way between them, until at length he came to 
where a wide field of Marigolds stood, with their heads 
ail turned towards a green bower, formed by the Acacias, 
and mantled over with the flowers of the Everlasting Pea. 
Noiseless as a blossom which just moves before the gentle 
breath of a bird, did Love approach that flowery arbour; 
and he dropped his bow^ and arrows in mute amazement 
as he gazed breathless upon the vision of beauty which 
slept in the green shadow of the embowering leaves. 
Neither the Graces, nor the Hours, who withdraw the 
golden curtains of the dawn when Aurora rises from her 
slumber, nor the loveliest forms which hover around the 
summit of Olympus and wait upon the dreaded divinities 
— not Hebe, in whose countenance all the beauty of youth 
was centred, came near to the indescribable loveliness of 
that sleeping nymph of Arcadia. And as Love gazed 
upon her, he knew that he had discovered a form more 
beautiful than any of the flowers he had hitherto knelt 
beside. 
