Nereids sang a dirge over him as he was swayed gently
hither and thither by the tide, and when the silver stars came out
from the dark firmament of heaven and were reflected in the blackness
of the sea at night, it was as though a velvet pall, silver-decked in
his honour, was spread around the slim white body with its
outstretched snowy wings.

So much had he dared--so little accomplished.

Is it not the oft-told tale of those who have followed Icarus? Yet who
can say that gallant youth has lived in vain when, as Icarus did, he
has breasted the very skies, has flown with fearless heart and soul to
the provinces of the deathless gods?--when, even for the space of a
few of the heart-beats of Time, he has tasted supreme power--the
ecstasy of illimitable happiness?

CLYTIE

The sunbeams are basking on the high walls of the old garden--smiling
on the fruit that grows red and golden in their warmth. The bees are
humming round the bed of purple heliotrope, and drowsily murmuring in
the shelter of the soft petals of the blush roses whose sweetness
brings back the fragrance of days that are gone. On the old grey
sundial the white-winged pigeons sleepily croon as they preen their
snowy plumage, and the Madonna lilies hang their heads like a
procession of white-robed nuns who dare not look up from telling their
beads until the triumphal procession of an all-conquering warrior has
gone by. What can they think of that long line of tall yellow flowers
by the garden wall, who turn their faces sunwards with an arrogant
assurance, and give stare for stare to golden-haired Apollo as he
drives his blazing car triumphant through the high heavens?

"Sunflowers" is the name by which we know those flamboyant blossoms
which somehow fail so wholly to suggest the story of Clytie, the nymph
whose destruction came from a faithful, unrequited love. She was a
water-nymph, a timid, gentle being who frequented lonely streams, and
bathed where the blue dragon-flies dart across the white water-lilies
in pellucid lakes. In the shade of the tall poplar trees and the
silvery willows she took her midday rest, and feared the hours when
the flowers drooped their heads and the rippling water lost its
coolness before the fierce glare of the sun.

But there came a day when, into the dark pool by which she sat, Apollo
the Conqueror looked down and mirrored his face. And nevermore did she
hide from the golden-haired god who, from the moment when sh