Hypolympia; Or, The Gods in the Island, an Ironic Fantasy

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Gosse Edmund. Hypolympia; Or, The Gods in the Island, an Ironic Fantasy

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A moment, Eros. Let us sit here. What can this flutter at my girdle be? I breathe with difficulty. Oh! Eros, can this be death?

Death? Ah! no; you have roses in your cheeks, mother. Your lips are like blood.

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Poor oracle, it became mad before it became dumb.

I was the only one of us all, Eros, who anticipated this change. High up above the glaciers of Olympus, where the warm crystal shone like ice, and the faint cumuli rained jasmine on us, and the blue light was like the cold acid of a fruit, in the midst of our incomparable felicity I pondered on the vicissitude of things.

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