Should flicker on the verdant turf below.
Hope not in vain; the pair, after brief pause
For circling Avernus, and its death-jaws,
Tower swiftly aloft; next, in straight line
Glide to a tree, settle as by design.
The Hero arrives, and with heart aflame
Marks, checkering green shadows, a gold gleam.
Upon a foreign stem the mistletoe
Will in the woods a cluster of sprays grow,
With berries saffron-hued in winter’s cold.