Things, of which my spirit by yours is told.
Cloudy must my story needs be to him
Who reads. All to the pilgrims’ selves was dim!
Phantom-like, and alone with night, they passed
Through Dis’s kingdom, lifeless, joyless, waste,
As, pale and ghostly will a forest seem,
Between pale clouds and the moon’s grudging beam.
The first stage Orcus, where before the gate,
In forecourt, watchful, if with closed eyes, wait—
Padlocks on Hell’s jaws—Mourning, vengeful Care,