And wandering there among them, wound still fresh, Phoenician Dido drifted along the endless woods. As the Trojan hero paused beside her, recognized her through the shadows, a dim, misty figure—as one when the month is young may see or seem to see the new moon rising up through banks of clouds— that moment Aeneas wept and approached the ghost with tender words of love: “Tragic Dido, so, was the story true that came my way?
