viii 
THE TALE OF ARCHAIS 
Turn from my book, the poet prayed, 
And look to Heaven, an hour to spend 
Before His throne who spake and bade 
The fountains of the deep descend 
And bade the earth uproot and rend 
To pitch like tents the mountains high, 
And gave him language who hath penned 
This pleasant tale of Thessaly. 
 
 
ENVOI 
 
Fair maiden, who hast rightly weighed 
The message of the morning sky, 
Think kindly of the man who made 
This pleasant tale of Thessaly.