eyes when death is past. With this in hand, he drives the
winds before him, and makes a path through the sea of
clouds. And now in his flight he espies the crest and the
tall sides of Atlas the rugged, who with his top supports 35
the sky—Atlas, whose pine-crowned dead, ever wreathed
with dark clouds, is buffeted by wind and rain. A mantle
of snow wraps his shoulders; rivers tumble from his hoary
chin, and his grisly beard is stiff with ice. Here first
Cyllene’s god poised himself on his wings and rested; then
from his stand stooping his whole body, he sent himself