Scene 4
Transformation from the Sea-shore to the Bower of Ariadne.
Song.
Through the air, through the air,
We are borne; from our hair
A spicy odour is shaken :
We sing as we sail;
The strong trees quail,
And the dreaming doves awaken.
The pale screech-owl
That, cheek by jowl,
Goes ravening with night,
Thinks day has come,
And hurries home
Half-starved, to shun the light.
An eagle above us screams;
But a star blows a silver horn,
And a faint far echo floats
From the depths of the lakes, and the streams
Warble the shadowy notes.
A young lark thinks it morn,
And sings through our flying crowd,
That seems to his eager soul
Like a low-hung dawning cloud.
The bells of midnight toll;
The night-flowers tell the hour;
And the stately planets roll,
As we fly to our lady's bower.