=35. The "Venus of Milo."= Of artistic conceptions of Aphrodite, the most famous are the statues called the Venus of Melos and the Venus of the Medici.[34] A comparison of the two conceptions is instituted in the following poem.[35] The worshiper apostrophizes the Venus of Melos, that "inner beauty of the world," whose tranquil smile he finds more fair than "The Medicean's sly and servile grace": [Illustration: VENUS OF MELOS] From our low world no gods have taken wing; Even now upon our hills the twain are wandering:[36] The Medicean's sly and servile grace, And the immortal beauty of thy face. One is the spirit of all short-lived love And outward, earthly loveliness: The tremulous rosy morn is her mouth's smile, The sky, her laughing azure eyes above; And, waiting for caress. Lie bare the soft hill-slopes, the while Her thrilling voice is heard In song of wind and wave, and every flitting bird. Not plainly, never quite herself she shows: Just a swift glance of her illumined smile Along the landscape goes; Just a soft hint of singing, to beguile A man from all his toil; Some vanished gleam of beckoning arm, to spoil A morning's task with longing, wild and vain. Then if across the parching plain He seek her, she with passion burns His heart to fever, and he hears The west wind's mocking laughter when he turns, Shivering in mist of ocean's sullen tears. It is the Medicean: well I know The arts her ancient subtlety will show,-- The stubble field she turns to ruddy gold; The empty distance she will fold In purple gauze; the warm glow she has kissed Along the chilling mist: Cheating and cheated love that grows to hate And ever deeper loathing, soon or late. Thou, too, O fairer spirit, walkest here Upon the lifted hills: Wherever that still thought within the breast The inner beauty of the world hath moved; In starlight that the dome of evening fills; On endless waters rounding to the west: For them who thro' that beauty's veil have loved The soul of all things beautiful the best. For lying broad awake, long ere the dawn, Staring against the dark, the blank of space Opens immeasurably, and thy face Wavers and glimmers there and is withdrawn. And many days, when all one's work is vain, And life goes stretching on, a waste gray plain, With even the short mirage of morning gone, No cool breath anywhere, no shadow nigh Where a weary man might lay him down and die, Lo! thou art there before me suddenly, With shade as if a summer cloud did pass, And spray of fountains whispering to the grass. Oh, save me from the haste and noise and heat That spoil life's music sweet: And from that lesser Aphrodite there-- Even now she stands Close as I turn, and O my soul, how fair! [Illustration: FIG. 20. HERMES PSYCHOPOMPOS]