Just as the wandering Maeander sports
With waves uncertain, now upon itself
Retreats, now halts in hesitation slow,685
Whether it shall its fountain seek again,
Or journey to the sea. Here lies the marsh
Of sluggish, vile Cocytus; here, behold,
The vulture, there the doleful owl laments,
And through the air the fearsome screech-owl sends
Its sad, foreboding cry. There stands the yew,
Its black leaves shuddering on the gloomy boughs;690