Down the bone-white maiden’s arm reaches,
to snatch the enchanting toy,
a gleaming daffodil that appeared all of a sudden
in the fields of flower-rich Nysa
where the Girl and her companions
– the daughter of Leto, the daughter of Metis, Asteria’s daughter
and all those lovely-voiced sisters sprung from bullish Achelous –
were wont to dance and gather the flowers which grew
in more plentiful kinds and colors here than anywhere else,
save perhaps in thrice-fertile Campania.
(Indeed, there are some who say
that Nysa and Vesuvius are one mountain,
or at least doubles of each other.)
As she bent over
a fragrant waft of dream-beguiling wine enfolded her
and carried her down,
down,
down,
deep below
to the land bordered by three rivers,
fiery Phlegethon, white and woeful Acheron
and melancholic Kokytos the lamentable.
The Girl spun round
and the breath caught in her throat.
