To clasp the dead hands loosely, and unhook
A swaying torque of gold from the white neck
That it might burn, a sun, between her breasts.
—The chase passed with hot noon, and in the cool
A straying centaur came, snuffed the new blood
And, seeing Itys dead, neighed in loud fear;
Calling the hairy tramplers of the woods
To mourn their friend with strange solemnities.
Close his eyes with the coins; bind his chin with the shroud;
Carry this clay along, in the time of the westing cloud;