ocean, the tender element of gentle compulsion, carrying along as an irresistible dream, white as paradise, and, as slightly rippling waves of foam, they bore Psyche away.
On the foaming waves Psyche drifted along, all white in the golden boat of her fair hair. So gently did they rock her, the foaming, rippling waves, that Psyche shut her eyes. Sleep was stealing over her. Her lips smiled with inward peace.
The waves bore her away, the sea washed her ashore. She awoke from her slumber, pearl-white she rose from the foam, amidst the joyful dolphins.
She stepped out of the sea on to the land. She felt quite cool, and her soul was calm and peaceful, full of reassuring, holy knowledge. But within her was a great desire.
Smiling, she stretched out her arms. She yearned for the desire of her heart. . . .
“Not yet . . . . not yet,” was whispered tenderly to her cool and peaceful soul. “Wait, wait . . . .” sounded the echo.
In the silent joy of her soul, she wept. She lifted her hand to her eyes; wet were her tears, and in her hand . . . . lay a pearl . . . .!
Then she looked round. She recognised the
