Cytherea

“Delicate Adonis is dying, Cytherea, what shall we do? Beat your breasts, maidens, and rend your tunics.”

There was already perceptible about it the air of unreality that marked the strand which saw the Embarkation for Cytherea.

When morning paints the orient skies, Her fingers burn with roseate dyes; The nymphs display the rose's charms, It mantles o'er their graceful arms; Through Cytherea's form it glows, And mingles with the living snows.

Had he met grey-eyed Athene, or beheld the roses and doves of Cytherea, the day would scarcely have held a more splendid memory.

Could we worship as well at the voluptuous altar of Cytherea and at the mystic shrine of the Holy Grail?