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 Actæon."
                       Actaeon of golden greaves!

Over fair meadows,
Over the cool face of that field,
Unstill, ever moving,
Host of an ancient people,
The silent cortège.