The Crow

Woman into Bird

 

A Phocian princess begs the gods to help her escape the amorous clutches of Neptune.

 

Up to the skies my arms

I stretch'd; and black my arms began to grow,

With waving pinions. From my shoulders, back

My robes I strove to fling,—my robes were plumes;

Deep in my skin the quills were fix'd: I try'd

On my bare bosom with my hands to beat;

Nor hands nor naked bosom now were found:

I ran; the sand no longer now retain'd

My feet, but lightly o'er the ground I skimm'd;

And soon on pinions through the air was borne;

And Pallas' faultless favorite I became.