And was it days, weeks, months, or years?—at last
From the ghost-haunted waters coastward passed—
Whether Goddess, or Woman—a pale shape,
That beckoned to the far Laconian Cape
Of Tænarus, where the dread cavern draws
Each generation down its hungry jaws.
At the first touch of his lyre opened wide
The lofty gates of Hell; he paced inside
The grove impenetrable by but him;
A darkness that might be felt, stark, and grim,