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 whom she had seen milking the cows, or plucking the thick bunches of grapes in the vineyard at harvest-time, whilst the pressers, handsome brown lads with sturdy arms, encircled the girls and danced.

But Psyche wandered along the ramparts; she looked at the clouds and spoke with the wind, and she asked the wind to give flight to her wings, so that she could fly far off to the opal landscapes that kept shifting and changing. But the wind rushed away with a flapping noise of wings that Psyche envied, and her own wings flapped a little, but in vain.

Psyche looked at the clouds. They floated along so stately in all kinds of forms—in the forms of sheep, swans, horses—and the form never remained: the seeming forms, thick-white in the blue ether, were constantly changing. Now she saw three swans which were drawing a boat, in which stood three women, who guided the swans; then she saw the women become a tower, the swans a dragon, and from far, far away came a knight, sitting on a winged horse. But now slowly the scene changed into a flock of little silver-fleeced, downy sheep, which were browsing