A shadow lies.
For, fallen asleep upon a dreary wold,
Slant to the light, one late October morn,
From some rough cavern blew a tempest cold,
And tearing off his garland of ripe corn,
Twisted with blue grapes, sweet with luscious wine,
And Ceres’ drowsy flowers, so dully red,
Deep in his cavern leafy and divine,
Buried him with his dead.
Then, with his black beard glistening in the frost,