Which things they both said, fearing in their hearts That savage Eros, if they mockt his case, Would kill their peace with his revengeful darts, And bring them haply to a worse disgrace: But Aphrodite, saying 'Good! my dames; Behind this smoke I see the spite that flames,' Left them, and on her journey went apace. 30 For having purposed she would hold no truce With Psyche or her son, 'twas in her mind To go forthwith unto the throne of Zeus, And beg that Hermes might be sent to find The wanderer; and secure that in such quest He would not fail, she ponder'd but how best She might inflict her vengeance long-design'd. OCTOBER 1 Heavy meanwhile at heart, with bruisèd feet Was Psyche wandering many nights and days Upon the paths of hundred-citied Crete, And chose to step the most deserted ways; Being least unhappy when she went unseen; Since else her secret sorrow had no screen From the plain question of men's idle gaze. 2 Yet wheresoe'er she went one hope she had; Like mortal mourners, who 'gainst reason strong Hope to be unexpectedly made glad With sight of their dead friends, so much they long; So she for him, whom loss a thousandfold Endear'd and made desired; nor coud she hold He would not turn and quite forgive her wrong. 3 Wherefore her eager eyes in every place Lookt for her lover; and 'twixt hope and fear She follow'd oft afar some form of grace, In pain alike to lose or venture near. And still this thought cheer'd her fatigue, that he, Or on some hill, or by some brook or tree, But waited for her coming to appear. 4 And then for comfort many an old love-crost And doleful ditty would she gently sing, Writ by sad poets of a lover lost, Now sounding sweeter for her sorrowing: _Echo, sweet Echo, watching up on high, Say hast thou seen to-day my love go by, Or where thou sittest by thy mossy spring?_ 5 _Or say ye nymphs, that from the crystal rills, When ye have bathed your limbs from morn till eve, Flying at midnight to the bare-topt hills, Beneath the stars your mazy dances weave, Say, my deserter whom ye well may know By his small wings, his quiver, and his bow, Say, have ye seen my love, whose loss I grieve?_ 6 Till climb'd one evening on a rocky steep Above the plain of Cisamos, that lay, Robb'd of its golden harvest, in the deep Mountainous shadows of the dying day, She saw a temple, whose tall columns fair Recall'd her home; and 'O if thou be there, My love,' she cried, 'fly not again away.' 7