When the altars stand on the shore, and the vows are paid, Keep the hair veiled, and the robe of crimson drawn Across the eyes, so that no hostile visage May interfere, to gaze on the holy fire Or spoil the sacred omens. This rite observe Through all the generations; keep it holy. From that first landing, when the wind brings you down To Sicily’s coast, and narrow Pelorus widens The waters of her strait, keep to the left, Land on the left, and water on the left, The long way round; the right is dangerous. Avoid it. There’s a story that this land Once broke apart--(time brings so many changes)-- By some immense convulsion, though the lands Had been one country once. But now between them The sea comes in, and now the waters bound Italian coast, Sicilian coast; the tide Washes on severed shores, their fields, their cities. Scylla keeps guard on the right; on the left Charybdis, The unappeasable; from the deep gulf she sucks The great waves down, three times; three times she belches Them high up into the air, and sprays the stars. Scylla is held in a cave, a den of darkness, From where she thrusts her huge jaws out, and draws Ships to her jagged rocks. She looks like a girl Fair-breasted to the waist, from there, all monster, Shapeless, with dolphins’ tails, and a wolf’s belly. Better to go the long way round, make turning Beyond Pachynus, than to catch one glimpse Of Scylla the misshapen, in her cavern, And the rocks resounding with the dark-blue sea-hounds. And one thing more than any, goddess-born, I tell you over and over: pray to Juno, Give Juno vows and gifts and overcome her With everlasting worship. So you will come Past Sicily and reach Italian beaches. You will come to a town called Cumae, haunted lakes, And a forest called Avernus, where the leaves Rustle and stir in the great woods, and there You will find a priestess, in her wildness singing Prophetic verses under the stones, and keeping Symbols and signs on leaves. She files and stores them In the depth of the cave; there they remain unmoving, Keeping their order, but if a light wind stirs At the turn of a hinge, and the door’s draft disturbs them, The priestess never cares to catch them fluttering Around the halls of rock, put them in order, Or give them rearrangement. Men who have come there For guidance leave uncounselled, and they hate The Sibyl’s dwelling. Let no loss of time, However comrades chide and chafe, however The wind’s voice calls the sail, postpone the visit To this great priestess; plead with her to tell you With her own lips the song of the oracles. She will predict the wars to come, the nations Of Italy, the toils to face, or flee from; Meet her with reverence, and she, propitious, Will grant a happy course. My voice can tell you