Note 155 — Chapter XX · THE IDYLLISTS.

And the poor Aphrodite, with tresses unbound, All dishevelled, unsandalled, shrieks mournful and shrill Through the dusk of the groves. The thorns, tearing her feet, Gather up the red flower of her blood, which is holy, Each footstep she takes; and the valleys repeat The sharp cry which she utters, and draw it out slowly. She calls on her spouse, her Assyrian.—Ibid.