And as she turned, her shoulders Shone with a radiant light; her hair shed fragrance, Her robes slipped to her feet, and the true goddess Walked in divinity. He knew his mother, And his voice pursued her flight: “Cruel again! Why mock your son so often with false phantoms? Why may not hand be joined to hand, and words Exchanged in truthfulness?” So, still reproachful, He went on toward the city, with Achates, But Venus cast dark air around their going, A veil of mist, so that no man might see them Or lay a hand on them, or halt them, asking The reasons of their coming. She soared upward To Paphos, happily home to temple and altars Steaming with incense, redolent with garlands. And they went on, where the little pathway led them To rising ground; below them lay the city, Majestic buildings now, where once were hovels, A wonder to Aeneas, gates and bustle And well-paved streets, the busy Tyrians toiling With stones for walls and citadel, or marking Foundations for their homes, drainage and furrow, All under ordered process. They dredge harbors, Set cornerstones, quarry the rock, where someday Their theater will tower. They are like bees In early summer over the country flowers When the sun is warm, and the young of the hive emerge, And they pack the molten honey, bulge the cells With the sweet nectar, add new loads, and harry The drones away from the hive, and the work glows, And the air is sweet with bergamot and clover. “Happy the men whose walls already rise!” Exclaims Aeneas, gazing on the city, And enters there, still veiled in cloud--a marvel!-- And walks among the people, and no one sees him.