nor wonder thereat. I see on thy finger here the ring that

Without one impious word, himself he flings,

Committed to the darkness and the gloom:

Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom,

Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fell

Through unknown things; till exhaled asphodel,

And rose, with spicy fannings interbreath'd,

Came swelling forth where little caves were wreath'd

So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem'd