ABSTRACT
The Shakespeare songs were finished. The author had lain in the bell of a cow-slip, and came unto the yellow sands, and borne him barefaced on the bier, and he had let the canakin clink. It was fun, and he had enjoyed doing them, but almost from the start, my next venture was slated. All along he had been reading different translations of the Agamemnon of Aeschylus, with the whole great Trilogy set as my next goal ahead. But presently I was standing up and shouting more fervently than any of the youthful fans around him. Here at last were men who were not afraid of being beautiful; who, with no trace of sentimentality or effeminacy, actually were beautiful.
