From his burning wound even yet upbelcheth clouds of steam. {600}
Neither across that water outspreading her pinions light
Any fowl of the air may win her way, but, even mid-flight
Faint-fluttering, down mid the flame it plungeth. On either side
Round poplars slim the Sun-god’s daughters in slow dance glide,
In misery wailing a piteous plaint, and adown from their eyne
Raining to earth do the glittering drops of amber shine.
These, parched by the beams of the sun, lie strewn at their feet on the sand;
But whensoever the blasts of the wailing wind on the strand
Are dashing the dark mere’s surging billows and onward hurling,