the hair of the chryselephantine Hermes. They sing:

Where the first crocus buds unfold

We found these petals near the cold

Swift river-bed.

Beneath the rocks where ivy-frond

Puts forth new leaves to gleam beyond

Those lately dead:

The very smallest two or three

Of gold (gold pale as ivory)

We gatherèd.

When the little girls have passed before the curtain, a wood-wind weaves a richer note into the flute melody; then the two blend into one song. But as the wood-wind grows in mellowness and richness, the flute gradually dies away into a secondary theme and the wood-wind alone evolves the melody of a new song.

Two by two—like two sets of medallions with twin profiles distinct, one head slightly higher, bent forward a little—the four figures of four slight, rather fragile taller children, are outlined with sharp white contour against the curtain.

The hair is smooth against the heads, falling to the shoulders but slightly waved against the nape of the neck. They are looking down, each at a spray of winter-rose. The tunics fall to the knees in sharp marble folds. They sing:

Never more will the wind

Cherish you again,

Never more will the rain.

Never more

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