memory of thy gentleness, Ulysses, made an end of my sweet life.’
“She spake; I longed to take into my arms The soul of my dead mother. Thrice I tried, Moved by a strong desire, and thrice the form Passed through them like a shadow or a dream. And then did the great sorrow in my heart Grow sharper, and in winged words I said:—
“ ‘Beloved mother, why wilt thou not keep Thy place, that I may clasp thee, so that here, In Pluto’s realm and in each other’s arms, We each might in the other soothe the sense Of misery? Hath mighty Proserpine Sent but an empty shade to meet me here, That I might only grieve and sigh the more?’
“I spake, and then my reverend mother said:— ‘Believe not that Jove’s daughter Proserpine Deceives thee. ’Tis the lot of all our race When they are dead. No more the sinews bind The bones and flesh, when once from the white bones The life departs. Then like a dream the soul Flies off, and flits about from place to place. But haste thou to the light again, and mark What I have said, that thou in after days Mayst tell it to thy wife on thy return.’