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Updated: May 21, 2025
He began again in his chanting chorus tone: he was reading and transposing from a pocket copy of Theocritus. 'They all call thee a "gipsy," gracious Africa, and "lean" and "sunburnt," 'tis only I that call thee "honey-pale."
Its honey-pale light filtered down on every little shape of tree, and leaf, and sleeping flower. That soft, vibrating radiance seemed to have woven all into one mysterious whole, stilling disharmony, so that each little separate shape had no meaning to itself.
More pleasantly thus wilt thou labour, and, indeed, of old thou wert a melodist. Battus. Ye Muses Pierian, sing ye with me the slender maiden, for whatsoever ye do but touch, ye goddesses, ye make wholly fair. They all call thee a GIPSY, gracious Bombyca, and LEAN, and SUNBURNT, 'tis only I that call thee HONEY-PALE.
You see her face, honey-pale, her slightly high, slightly aquiline nose; her beautiful eyes, dark-grey, luminous; the "kind, kindling, liquid eyes" that Ellen Nussey saw; and their look, one moment alert, intent, and the next, inaccessibly remote.
Apollo and Bacchus are scarcely less lovely in their bloom of earliest manhood; honey-pale, as Greeks would say; like statues of living electron; realizing Simætha's picture of her lover and his friend: +tois d' ên xanthotera men helichrysoio geneias, stêthea de stilbonta poly pleon ê ty Selana.+
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