Send grieving word to Aurea, first, most splendid daughter of the dawn,
For it was she who rose with rosy cheeks and full, moist lips
To turn the seething tips of poisoned shaft from Aragon, her own late love;
Just as a dove flies through the sweeping meadows where thressyla grows
In powdery white tufts extending with a purple vibrance like the setting sun
At dawn of death, so she crowns the pallid corpse with flowing tears
Like flowing Phlegython to burn his cheeks and prays for Lethe’s sweet
Waters; for there is a hill deep in Acheron, secluded in among
Numberless hills in ghostly procession – Taramount, the highest of the giants
Leads them in procession and they chant a sullen song that mixes
With the groaning brook. No lack of lotus here, and corpses mix
With lazy drift-wood ‘til they tumble off the cliffs where forgetfulness
Mixes with that river of burning pain. If you see a corpse wandering here
In full array, still garmed with tattered clothes, his hollow sunken eyes
Will take you with his longing, rape you from your life, and it is enough
To make you jump into the waters, cool and flowing to the neck, – Oh virgin!
Such was the coldness of your gaze like ice that blazes
Across the fields with harsh winds, in the winter when snow like a thousand mosquitos
Buzzing round sucks out the bloom of youthful life. Flowers fell like garments,
Purple roses cut by errant breezes, and your tears would neither cease
Nor yet did your face dry, like one of those crags, endlessly in torment
By clashing shores. Still I have seen you when the light of the rising sun
Crowns your pallid features, and your long locks tumble down
Upon the youth you mourn.