Nevertheless, the whole scheme of colour in these pictures, with their figures, recalls the pictures of Tintoret.

They have his _furia_, his black, gold, and sombre purple, his white mist and barred clouds and the thunder-roar in his skies.

Nor are Prometheus and Artemis, and Lyda on her heap of skins in the deep woods, unworthy of the daring hand of the great Venetian.
They seem to stand forth from his canvas.
The poem closes with a charming lyric, half-sad, half-joyful, in which he hails the spring, and which in itself is full of his heart when it was close to the hopefulness he drew from natural beauty.

I quote it to close this chapter: Dance, yellows and whites and reds, Lead your gay orgy, leaves, stalks, heads Astir with the wind in the tulip-beds.
There's sunshine; scarcely a wind at all Disturbs starved grass and daisies small On a certain mound by a churchyard wall.
Daisies and grass be my heart's bed-fellows, On the mound wind spares and sunshine mellows: Dance you, reds and whites and yellows.
FOOTNOTES: [4] David could only have seen this on the upper slopes of Hermon.

But at the time of the poem, when he is the shepherd-youth, he could scarcely have visited the north of Palestine.