lullaby remembered in dreams. For past the
valley of Sleep flow the waters of Lethe, the river of Forgetfulness.
Close up to the door of the cave where dwelt the twin brothers, Sleep
and Death, blood-red poppies grew, and at the door itself stood
shadowy forms, their fingers on their lips, enjoining silence on all
those who would enter in, amaranth-crowned, and softly waving sheaves
of poppies that bring dreams from which there is no awakening. There
was there no gate with hinges to creak or bars to clang, and into the
stilly darkness Iris walked unhindered. From outer cave to inner cave
she went, and each cave she left behind was less dark than the one
that she entered. In the innermost room of all, on an ebony couch
draped with sable curtains, the god of sleep lay drowsing. His
garments were black, strewn with golden stars. A wreath of half-opened
poppies crowned his sleepy head, and he leaned on the strong shoulder
of Morpheus, his favourite son. All round his bed hovered pleasant
dreams, gently stooping over him to whisper their messages, like a
field of wheat swayed by the breeze, or willows that bow their silver
heads and murmur to each other the secrets that no one ever knows.
Brushing the idle dreams aside, as a ray of sunshine brushes away the
grey wisps of mist that hang to the hillside, Iris walked up to the
couch where Somnus lay. The light from her rainbow-hued robe lit up
the darkness of the cave, yet Somnus lazily only half-opened his
eyes, moved his head so that it rested more easily, and in a sleepy
voice asked of her what might be her errand. "Somnus," she said,
"gentlest of gods, tranquilliser of minds and soother of careworn
hearts, Juno sends you her commands that you despatch a dream to
Halcyone in the city of Trachine, representing her lost husband and
all the events of the wreck."

Her message delivered, Iris hastened away, for it seemed to her that
already her eyelids grew heavy, and that there were creeping upon her
limbs, throwing silver dust in her eyes, lulling into peaceful slumber
her mind, those sprites born of the blood-red poppies that bring to
weary mortals rest and sweet forgetfulness.

Only rousing himself sufficiently to give his orders, Somnus entrusted
to Morpheus the task imposed upon him by Juno, and then, with a yawn,
turned over on his downy pillow, and gave himself up to exquisite
slumber.

When he had winged his way to Trachine, Morpheus took upon himself the
form of Ce