Canto Xiii

In the cauldron of the cliffs Lies the deep and inky lake. And from heaven the solemn stars Peer upon us. Night and stillness.

Night and stillness. Beat of oars. Like a rippling mystery Swims our boat. The nieces twain Serve in place of ferrymen.

Swift and blithe they row. Their arms Sometimes shine from out the night, And on their white skins the stars Gleam and on large eyes of blue.

At my side Lascaro sits Pale and mute as is his wont, And I shudder at the thought: Is Lascaro really dead?

Or perchance 'tis I am dead? I, perchance, am drifting down With these spectral passengers To the icy realm of shades?

Can this lake be Styx's dark, Sullen flood? Hath Proserpine, In the absence of her Charon Sent her maids to fetch me down?

Nay, not yet my days are done! Unextinguished in my soul Still the living flame of life, Leaps and blazes, glows and sings.

And these girls who swing their oars Merrily, and splash me too, Laugh and grin with mischief rare As the drops upon me flash.

Ah, these wenches fresh and strong, Surely they could never be Ghostly hell-cats, nor the maids Of the dark queen Proserpine.

So that I might be assured Of the girls' reality, And unto myself might prove My own honest flesh and blood,--

On their rosy dimples I Swiftly pressed my eager lips, And to this conclusion came: Lo, I kiss; therefore I live!

When we reached the shore, again Did I kiss these bonny maids,-- Kisses were the only coin Which in payment they would take.