`` Ah , Phoebus , '' said Ceres , with bitter meaning in her words , `` you have a harp instead of a heart . Farewell . '' `` Will not you stay a moment , '' asked Phoebus , `` and hear me turn the pretty and touching story of Proserpina into extemporary verses ? '' But Ceres shook her head , and hastened away , along with Hecate . Phoebus -LRB- who , as I have told you , was an exquisite poet -RRB- forthwith began to make an ode about the poor mother 's grief ; and , if we were to judge of his sensibility by this beautiful production , he must have been endowed with a very tender heart . But when a poet gets into the habit of using his heartstrings to make chords for his lyre , he may thrum upon them as much as he will , without any great pain to himself . Accordingly , though Phoebus sang a very sad song , he was as merry all the while as were the sunbeams amid which he dwelt . Poor Mother Ceres had now found out what had become of her daughter , but was not a whit happier than before . Her case , on the contrary , looked more desperate than ever . As long as Proserpina was above ground , there might have been hopes of regaining her . But now that the poor child was shut up within the iron gates of the king of the mines , at the threshold of which lay the three-headed Cerberus , there seemed no possibility of her ever making her escape . The dismal Hecate , who loved to take the darkest view of things , told Ceres that she had better come with her to the cavern , and spend the rest of her life in being miserable . Ceres answered , that Hecate was welcome to go back thither herself , but that , for her part , she would wander about the earth in quest of the entrance to King Pluto 's dominions . And Hecate took her at her word , and hurried back to her beloved cave , frightening a great many little children with a glimpse of her dog 's face as she went . Poor Mother Ceres ! It is melancholy to think of her , pursuing her toilsome way , all alone , and holding up that never-dying torch , the flame of which seemed an emblem of the grief and hope that burned together in her heart . So much did she suffer , that , though her aspect had been quite youthful when her troubles began , she grew to look like an elderly person in a very brief time . She cared not how she was dressed , nor had she ever thought of flinging away the wreath of withered poppies , which she put on the very morning of Proserpina 's disappearance . She roamed about in so wild a way , and with her hair so disheveled , that people took her for some distracted creature , and never dreamed that this was Mother Ceres , who had the oversight of every seed which the husbandman planted . Nowadays , however , she gave herself no trouble about seed time nor harvest , but left the farmers to take care of their own affairs , and the crops to fade or flourish , as the case might be .
There was nothing , now , XXXXX which Ceres seemed to feel an interest , unless when she saw children at play , or gathering flowers along the wayside .
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