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But She, with that ambrosial glance, of hers;
Token, óf one come of Angels race, again
Hath turned benígn; and seeing me following thus,
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A languishing mortal wight, withheld Her steps,
Divine; till when I might again approach.
Then beckoned her high hand; by yond hill-ground;
Whereo'er white drift-way of cattle, I discerned;
Unto wide upland downs, I should ascend.
And therein seemed me, spake the Muses Voice;
Melodious, more than ever shepherds reed:
And seemed all words of her twinned lips to sound;
That Golden World, when men with Gods conversed;
Elect and true, wéighed in just bálances:
(But tongue should fáil me, would I thém rehearse:)
She said, to comfort óf my weariness;
This day I should taste bread, and be refreshed.
With wand in Her right hand, She Goddess bright,
Then toucht me; in me, sore bruised and lacking breath;
Reviving kindly force and hardiness.
Again She passed before me, wíth light steps;
Of ever-springing youth, grace, heavenly gladness.
Reached to that going-up; in grassy plot,
Again she stayed. And, Fosterling speed thee Gods!
She quoth: and faded, Lady immortal bright;
As morrows mist before mine eyes' dull seeing.
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Print of the golden sandals, on Her feet;
(Wherein spring healing herbs and thyme,) I kissed.
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