Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
(John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn)
“We’re almost out of our time together. Do you have any more questions?” asks Orpheus, my charming guide to Paradise.
“Alas not I, only my instrument,” he raises an ironic eyebrow. “And you’re most welcome. I enjoy coming here, especially as it gives me a chance to spend time with my wife.”
“Your wife?” My face must have fallen a little, for Orpheus gives me one of his most radiant smiles and pats my hand gently.