An image of Lethe, and the fields Full of faint light but golden, Gray cliffs, and beneath them A sea Harsher than granite, unstill, never ceasing; High forms with the movement of gods, Perilous aspect; And one said: "This is Actaeon." Actaeon of golden greaves! Over fair meadows, Over the cool face of that field, Unstill, ever moving Hosts of an ancient people, The silent cortege. |