Gone asleep has this house,
Blown down by the wind’s desire.
Only shook by God,
Yet ruined by the fire.

From the shore this boat steered,
Across the Styx and its mire.
Lead by only those
Dressed in obscene attire.

A length of beard, unkempt,
Hung long from the man with ire.
A cup of hemlock
Did make myth a martyr.

From the dreary coast rise
Memories that had been sired,
A forgotten place,
Shone bright on the Tiber.