On some high crag, O king, set forth the maid,
In all the pomp of funeral robes arrayed.
Hope for no bridegroom born of mortal seed,
But fierce and wild and of the dragon breed.
He swoops all-conquering, born on airy wing,
With fire and sword he makes his harvesting;
Trembles before him Jove, whom the gods do dread,
And quakes the darksome river of the dead.
Today’s Reading: Searching for Heroines (II): Psyche :: The Hannibal Blog