"With that she said what first I told thee, love And then went on, 'Moreover thou shalt say That I, the daughter of almighty Jove, Have wrought for him this long-desired day; In sign whereof, these things that pass away, Wherein mine image men have well arrayed, I give thee for thy wedding gear, O maid.' "Therewith her raiment she put off from her. And laid bare all her perfect loveliness, And, smiling on me, came yet more anear, And on my mortal lips her lips did press, And said, 'Now herewith shalt thou love no less Than Psyche loved my son in days of old; Farewell, of thee shall many a tale be told.' "And even with that last word was she gone, How, I know not, and I my limbs arrayed In her fair gift, and waited thee alone-- Ah, love, indeed the word is true she said, For now I love thee so, I grow afraid Of what the gods upon our heads may send-- I love thee so, I think upon the end." What words he said? How can I tell again What words they said beneath the glimmering light, Some tongue they used unknown to loveless men As each to each they told their great delight, Until for stillness of the growing night Their soft sweet murmuring words seemed growing loud And dim the moon grew, hid by fleecy cloud. * * * * * Such was the ending of his ancient rhyme, That seemed to fit that soft and golden time, When men were happy, they could scarce tell why, Although they felt the rich year slipping by. The sun went down, the harvest-moon arose, And 'twixt the slim trees of that fruitful close They saw the corn still falling 'neath its light, While through the soft air of the windless night The voices of the reapers' mates rang clear In measured song, as of the fruitful year They told, and its delights, and now and then The rougher voices of the toiling men Joined in the song, as one by one released From that hard toil, they sauntered towards the feast That waited them upon the strip of grass That through the golden-glimmering sea did pass. But those old men, glad to have lived so long, Sat listening through the twilight to the song, And when the night grew and all things were still Throughout the wide vale from green hill to hill Unto a happy harvesting they drank Till once more o'er the hills the white moon sank. * * * * *