It certainly is naked Nature with a vengeance, and it was hardly fair to take her portrait in that condition. Theocritus would have shown us Acteon surprising Artemis, not naked, but nude; and there is all the difference between nakedness and nudity that yawns between a Greek statue and a Pompeiian fresco indiscreetly preserved in the museum at Naples. Theocritus shows Nature nude, but not naked; and it is worth noting that the difference between the two lies in the presence or absence of consciousness. In Greek mythology, nudity passes without note or comment; the moment it begins to be noted and commented upon it becomes nakedness. Theocritus sees Nature nude, as did all the Greek poets, but he does not surprise her when she is naked. He paints the undertones faithfully, but he always lays on the overtones, and so spreads the effulgence of the sky-stream over the undertones, and the picture becomes vibrant and luminous. The fact is never slurred or ignored; it gets full value, but not as a solitary and detached thing untouched by light, unmodified by the landscape. Is there a more charming impression of a landscape bathed in atmosphere, exhaling poetry, breathing in the very presence of divinity, than this, in Calverley's translation: "I ceased. He, smiling sweetly as before, Gave me the staff, 'the Muses'' And leftward sloped toward Pyxa. We the while Bent us to Phrasydene's, Eucritus and I, And baby-faced Amyntas: there we lay Half-buried in a couch of fragrant reed And fresh-cut vine leaves, who so glad as we? A wealth of elm and poplar shook o'erhead; Hard by, a sacred spring flowed gurgling on From the Nymphs' grot, and in the somber boughs The sweet cicada chirped laboriously. Hid in the thick thorn-bushes far away The tree frog's note was heard; the crested lark Sang with the goldfinch; turtles made their moan; And o'er the fountain hung the gilded bee. All of rich summer smacked, of autumn all: Pears at our feet, and apples at our side Rolled in luxuriance; branches on the ground Sprawled, overweighted with damsons; while we brushed From the cask's head the crust of four long years. Say, ye who dwell upon Parnassian peaks, Nymphs of Castalia, did old Chiron e'er Set before Hercules a cup so brave In Pholus' cavern--did as nectarous draughts Cause that Anapian shepherd, in whose hand Rocks were as pebbles, Polypheme the strong, Featly to foot it o'er the cottage lawns:-- As, ladies, ye bid flow that day for us All by Demeter's shrine at harvest-home? Beside whose corn-stacks may I oft again Plant my broad fan: while she stands by and smiles, Poppies and corn-sheaves on each laden arm."