frustra de colle Lycaei anxia prospectas, si quis per nubila longe aut sonus aut nostro sublatus ab agmine pulvis: frigidus et nuda iaceo tellure, nec usquam tu prope, quae vultus efflantiaque ora teneres.
In vain do you gaze anxiously from Lycaeus hill, hoping for a distant sound through the clouds or for dust raised by my troop. Cold I lie on the bare earth, nor anywhere are you near to hold my face and parting breath.
final_alignments\Statius_Thebaid_Book9.json