put a wreath of vine-leaves on her head, and she was like a fair Bacchante still very young and tender, with her white skin, with her tender eyes of soul-innocence, in which, deep down, dejection reigned.
“Psyche!” cried he delighted, “Psyche! How pretty you are!”
She uttered her shrill laugh, her laugh of bitter irony. He led her away down the hills. She looked about: yonder lay the Present, reduced to dust and spider-webs. She looked about: in the wind, which was blowing, her wings whirled away, shrivelled up, whirled away like dry leaves.
She laughed and put her arm round his neck, and they hastened back to the wood.
The wind blew; the first snowflakes fell.
