The Metamorphoses Of Ovid

by Ovid

Notus, who flies out on drenched wings: his awesome face is veiled in pitch-black darkness, and his beard is heavy with rainclouds, and water flows down his white hairs; dark fog rests on his brow; his wings and robes are dripping.

but they—as long as they still could—called out in unison, ‘Farewell, dear mate, farewell . . .’ until at the same instant, bark had sealed

And as she died again, Eurydice did not reproach her husband. (How could she have faulted him except to say that he loved her indeed?)

but without any need to fear should he turn round to see his own Eurydice.

but above all, his lips call on his wife, Alcyone; he thinks again, again of her—his memories are like an eddy; he implores the waves to bear his body to a shore where he may yet be seen by his Alcyone and she, with love, may bury his dead body. And as he swims, each time the surge permits his mouth to open, she is on his lips: the name—“Alcyone, Alcyone”— of one so distant.

But I won’t try; I won’t leave you alone; at least this time, sad Ceyx, I shall come along with you; this time I’m your companion. And if we’re not entombed in the same urn, at least the letters of our epitaph will join us; if my bones don’t touch your bones, at least my name will touch your name.”

In battle, your right hand serves well indeed; but when it comes to thought, your head has need of me as guide. You have brute force, while I must weigh, foresee, and plan;

“But lest I gallop far beyond my reach and, so, forget what I had meant to teach, know this: the heavens and all things beneath the heavens change their forms—the earth and all that is upon the earth; and since we are parts of the world, we, too, are changeable.