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- Стр. 157/1366
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When
we
had
put
ourselves
within
a
wood
,
That
was
not
marked
by
any
path
whatever
.
Not
foliage
green
,
but
of
a
dusky
colour
,
Not
branches
smooth
,
but
gnarled
and
intertangled
,
Not
apple-trees
were
there
,
but
thorns
with
poison
.
Such
tangled
thickets
have
not
,
nor
so
dense
,
Those
savage
wild
beasts
,
that
in
hatred
hold
'
Twixt
Cecina
and
Corneto
the
tilled
places
.
There
do
the
hideous
Harpies
make
their
nests
,
Who
chased
the
Trojans
from
the
Strophades
,
