Swift-racing, as when some hawk through the welkin soaring high
To the breeze committeth his wings, and is borne fast: onward sweeping
He stirreth them not, on restful pinions in mid-heaven sleeping.
And lo, by the streams of Parthenius’ seaward-murmuring water,
Most softly-sliding of rivers, they passed, where Lêto’s Daughter,
What time from the hunting she cometh, ere up to the heaven she go,
In its lovely ripples cooleth her limbs from the summer-glow.
Then through the night-tide onward and onward unresting they sped. {940}
Past Sêsamus, past the long Erythinian steeps they fled;
By Krôbialus and by Krômne, Kytôrus the forest-crowned;