“I see, I see the two-oar’d skiff. With hand on pole
Charon, the ferryman of the dead, thus calleth me:
‘Why dost thou loiter? Hasten! Thou’rt delaying us.’
With words like these in angry haste he urgeth me.”
To-day he rides in his own might:—
“Why are the mountains so dark, and why so woebegone?
Is it the wind at war there, or does the rain-storm scourge them?
It is not the wind at war there, it is not the rain that scourges,
It is only Charon passing across them with the dead;
He drives the youths before him, the old folk drags behind,