The White Raven

Coronis
Painting by Adam Elsheimer

Though a beautiful land of vast plains and towering mountains, Thessaly, in northern Greece, held a dread curse over her ruling house. The house of Phlegyas was damned by Olympus, as the King of the Thessalian Lapith tribe had blasphemed terribly against the most high. Both children of Phlegyas would feel the wrath of gods. The King's son, Ixion, dared vengeance upon Zeus himself, and was now condemned to be bound to a wheel of fire that roared through the vaults of Heaven until the end of times. The fate of the King's daughter, Coronis, hung in the balance...

The maiden of Larissa, the hand of Coronis was sought after far and wide, by mortal, and immortal. But far from winning the hand of any earthly prince, she won something more - the heart of the Sun god himself, Apollo the son of Zeus. While travelling with her father to the land of the Epidaurians deep in the Argolid, when alone one night, the son of Zeus came down to her from on high. Finding the Thessalian princess alone from her kin, out of sight and out of earshot, the god made his strike. Coronis, overwhelmed by the glory of an immortal god, succumbed to the allure of the son of Zeus.

Some months passed, and soon time bore witness to the swell in the belly of the Larissan maid. Apollo, son of Zeus and lord of light, rejoiced at the coming of his child. Commanding his faithful servant, a raven of purest white, he bade the bird keep watch on Coronis, and bring tidings of her to Olympus. Down to the earthly plain it flew, a glimmer of white, for in those days of old the raven was as white as the first winter snow, and 'soft as the swan'.


              " But his own bird the raven chanc'd to find
                The false one with a secret rival joyn'd
                Coronis begg'd him to suppress the tale,
                But could not with repeated pray'rs prevail "
                     - THE RAVEN UNCOVERS THE INFIDELITY OF CORONIS


Grim were the tidings indeed, for it seemed the absence of Apollo had hit Coronis hard. The Thessalian princess had since fallen for Ischys, a Thessalian boy, and it was her meeting with the lad that the snowy raven caught sight of now. Cold dread flooded him icier than the snows like which he seemed. The raven agonised over what to do, should he defend his master's honour, and furiously peck the stranger away? Should he chastise Coronis for dishonouring the father of her unborn child? Should he do nothing? At length, the mischievous nature of the raven took flight, and the snowbird soared to the skies, hurtling to the Kingdom of the Sun.


            " The raven to her injur'd patron flew,
               And found him out, and told the fatal truth
              Of false Coronis and the favour'd youth "
                   - THE RAVEN REVEALS CORONIS

Terrible was the fury of the god, cuckolded by a mere mortal, and worse, when the lady was with his child. All colour drained the Sun god's ever youthful complexion bar the red of rage. Madness of jealous anger flooded him, banishing afar reason and good sense. His radiant hand as a flash of his father's lightning darted toward his bow, the dread of giants and all creatures of darkness. With a scream, he wrenched the string back, feathered arrow nocked, and released. Sure and true, the golden dart raced through the Heavens and Earth, and transfixed itself in the breast of Coronis. Where once the sun god had touched in life, he now struck in death. To her knees fell the maiden of Thessaly, gentle groans, and no words, as her life-force trickled out from the burning wound. Apollo's fire grew not cooler, but hotter still, as he found no release from grief at his fell deed. As her soul leaked from her wound, Coronis cried with her last breath:


          " Ah cruel god! Tho' I have justly dy'd,
            What has, alas! my unborn infant done,
            That he should fall, and two expire in one? "
                    - CORONIS' PLEA

The Argolid
Photograph taken by the author

With that, her noblest words, she departed life, as the fires of the sun god's dart consumed her mortal form. Her words pierced both fire and sky, and reached Apollo's ears. A thundering remorse pulsed through him, as he was seized with grief and regret. So great was the heat that emanated from within him the snowy raven was scorched, his magnificent plumage, once pure as hope, now blackened with grief. Charred deeply, from that day the raven and all his descendants would bear the mark of that day, and that is why the raven has black feathers. Soaring down to her body, the sun god heard the cries of a baby, and resolved to protect the child. The son of an immortal god, the child could not die, alas her mother bore not the same shield against Death. From amongst the embers, the screaming child was ripped, a ray of the sun god's hope. To him was given the name of Asclepius, who would one day be the god of healing and rejuvenation. Apollo set him in the land which conceived him, the land of the Epidaurians in the Argolid, there to be raised by the finest tutor of the age, the centaur, Chiron, who had taught Achilles himself. For the god of healing, it was the beginning....

United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Hyacinthus

Envy is a terrible thing. It tears friendships asunder, levels cities and topples nations. An emotion the gods of the pagan world were no less susceptible to than their human subjects. Mortality was never a barrier to jealously, as the curse to never be content with one's lot in life afflicted the Olympians as much as men. Sometime the gods even envied their own worshippers. Here is the story of one.

Zephryus the West Wind
Painting by William-Adolphe Bouguereau

Long ago, before the high days of ancient Greece, in the days before even Agamemnon the High King, the city state of Sparta was in its infancy. Long before the days when Spartans reigned inexorable on land, the richly destined city was little more than a village, deep in the valley of the Eurotas in the shadow of Mount Taygetus. King Amyclas ruled over a modest realm of simple folk, pious and rustic. One day a boy was born to the royal house of Sparta, Prince Hyacinthus was his name. Joy erupted in verdant Sparta, and Spartans far and wide flocked to catch a glimpse of the handsome Prince. Spartan mothers were swift to sing the praises of the boy's beauty, Spartan fathers of the strength in his arms. Not even the Olympians were blind to the event, all celebrating the birth of such a fine heir, and the great grandson of Zeus the Thunderer himself. The spirits of the cosmos were no less taken, and one above others, Zephryus the lord of the West Winds. In the days of the Classical World, it was the societal practice for an older man to take a young boy under his wing, and teach him the ways of the world, free from the constraints and biases of the boy's family. No less so at Sparta, renowned for this custom. The West Wind took a shine to the boy, and moved to greet the Prince.

Apollo & Hyacinthus
Painting by Jean Broc

But it was the golden rays of the Sun which smiled most fondly upon the Prince. Apollo the keen eyed archer, father of the arts, was smitten at once with the Spartan Prince, and moved without delay. "Phoebus Apollo for thee too, Hyacinth, design'd a place among the Gods, had Fate been kind...". In Hyacinthus Apollo 'plac'd his Heav'n, and fix'd his joy". The Sun shone brighter than ever before on the golden valley of the Eurotas, and the Spartans bathed in warmth. The god's hands forgot the string of the bow and chords of the harp, as Apollo's mind was turned to the Spartan Prince. All the while the West Wind blew a gentle breeze, Zephryus pursuing young Hyacinthus, eager to take the boy under his celestial wing. But young Hyacinthus, awed by the light, turned to Apollo of the golden mount. Phoebus Apollo was overwhelmed with joy, delight that his should be the fate of the Spartan Prince. Meanwhile Zephryus lurked in despair and grief, soon to turn to envy and wrath.


Sunlight flooded Eurotas, as Apollo and Hyacinthus ran in the ancient plains. The wisdom of a god Hyacinthus gained from Apollo, the innocence of youth Apollo from Hyacinthus. Then came a day, a day of days, when Hyacinthus was old enough to learn the ways of a man. To the young Prince Apollo yearned to teach the feats of the martial body and of athletic glory. To the noble sport of the discus the sun god turned, a majestic sport for a Spartan boy, to build good strength and competitive spirit. Hyacinthus marvelled at the golden disc, as though the Sun obeyed Phoebus in his hand. Apollo bade the boy watch him well, and took a deep breath and poised for the throw. Divine sinews groaned, and godly muscles unfurled for the feat. With a cry,

 " A well-pos'd disk first hasty Phoebus threw,
   It cleft the air, and whistled as it flew;
   It reach'd the mark,a  most surpising length;
   Which spoke an equal share of art, and strength.
   Scarce was it fall'n, when with too eager hand
   Young Hyacinthus ran to snatch it from the sand... "
          - APOLLO'S DEADLY THROW

The Death of Hyacinthus
Painting by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo

Awed by the supernatural throw, swift footed Hyacinthus ran in pursuit, eager to fetch the discus for his master. To the young Prince the sun god called, but in vain, for Hyacinthus alas could not be swian. Zephryus the Western Wind, his jealousy raw, took a deep breath and blasted raw. The wind then blew the discus from the straight and true, and Apollo looked on, helpless as the mighty disk, flew now a weapon of death. The metallic star slammed into Hyacinthus' head, and with a scream of final innocence, the boy fell to the land, never to rise again. The West Wind smiled in spiteful malice. Apollo shouted in disbelief, and ran over to the dying youth. The coldness spread through the Spartan Prince, and the light left his eyes, as Phoebus Apollo raised his head to the stars and wailed his grief. Taking the nearby herbs of Taygetus, he to the lethal wound vainly applied. "The wound is mortal, and his skill defies". Just as a wilting lily lowers its head, so too now Hyacinthus bowed to Death.

But Apollo would not his Fate accept. "O thou art gone, my boy, Apollo cry'd, defrauded of thy youth in all its pride!". Not now would Hades take his fill, not from so fair a spirit so cruelly snuffed out. "On my tongue thou shalt forever dwell; thy name my lyre shall sound, my verse shall tell". In that moment the sun gods power the young body transfigured. Youthful Prince white in the clutches of Death no more, now a beautiful flower, as yet unnamed, blood from the fatal wound, its petals coloured, mingled with the tears of the god of the Sun. Forever, Apollo decreed, would it bear the boys name. The flower we call Hyacinth today...


United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Cyparissus

The Cypress Tree
Painting by Vincent Van Gogh

Considered the iconic tree of the Mediterranean, the symbol of the rolling hills of Tuscany or the rugged mountains of Greece, the humble cypress tree had a far more potent, and sinister, meaning to the Ancient Romans. Even today, journeying through Italy, you will find many a shadow of a cypress falling across a graveyard, a silent sentinel watching over the darker places of the world. Its characteristic pencil like form is never far away in this land, and rarely absent from the tourist's photograph. But why this mournful association? Why the favoured foliage of the afterlife? It all began with a story nearly two thousand years ago, the story of a young boy who would give the cypress its name, and its story...




Long ago, on the idyllic pastures of the island of Caea, there was bred a mighty stag, its stature and beauty never before known. In majesty and power, all of his kind he excelled. A wonder to behold, to the nymphs of Cartha he was sacred held. Dignity was written in his face, vast were his antlers, enough to grant him ample shade. The horns gilt seemed, as the sun beams danced of their shining points, casting all around in their radiant glow. So brilliantly burnished was his coat, it seemed as though all the precious stones of the world were embedded in every lock. Nature itself seemed to bow before his stride, and soon the fear of the locals was lost, and even strangers would come forth to pat his proffered neck.

But there was a young boy among the Caeans who adored him most. By all accounts an ordinary boy, blessed with no great strength of arm, divine beauty nor unearthly wit, but a heart of gold he hid within. A country boy, he cared nothing for the grand affairs of the world, but cared in abundance for what his eyes could see and ears could hear. An uncommon empathy he held too for all living things, for in the wild he lived, and learned to reside in peace with the creatures, and spirits of the forest. Then one day, came the regal stag, and all was changed:


       " Much was the beast by Caea's youth caress'd,
         But thou, sweet Cyparissus, lov'dst him best:
         By thee, to pastures fresh, he oft was led,
         By thee oft water'd at the fountain's head:
         His horns with garlands, now, by thee were ty'd,
         And, now, thou on his back wou'dst wanton ride;
         Now here, now there wou'dst bound along the plains,
         Ruling his tender mouth with purple reins. "
              - CYPARISSUS AND THE STAG

Cyparissus, Apollo & Hyacinthus
Painting by Alexander Ivanov

Many came before the stag awed by the beauty of its form. Cyparissus came, drawn by the beauty within, for he sensed a grace within, bound with his adoration of nature and al living things. Soon both boy and beast began a friendship such that man and loyal animal only can, like the shepherd and his faithful hound. Many a lazy afternoon could you find them, resting by a pool in the forest glades, retreating from the burning rays of Apollo's sun. Across the far reaching plains the boy and his stag would race, their contest the amusement of the gods high on Olympus. The villagers were puzzled, but delighted for young Cyparissus and his unconventional friendship, sensing the hand of the divine at work.


Then one day, Cyparissus went into the forest hunting, hoping to bring back some prize boar for his family, a spectacular feast indeed. A scorching summer day, the burning arms of the Sun pierced the foliage, and sweat fell from the boy's brow. His faithful companion had bounded joyfully ahead into the brush, bidding the boy on. But, suffering from the heat too, the mighty stag sought refuge in the shade of the bushes, laying his weary limbs across the grass. Suddenly, distracted, the boy heard the snort of a boar close by. Not twice does opportunity strike, not two moments does one wait when hunger strikes. Cyparissus levelled his spear and took his aim, wary of his nearby friend. Bringing back his hunting arm, he launched with all his might, but no! A bead of sweat brought forth from the fiery Sun fell into his eye. A stinging sensation swept his eye, and the boy blinked, and his aim went awry. A blood chilling cry rose to the skies, as Cyparissus rubbed his sore eye. The pain passed, he looked up, excited to find his quarry.

Cyparissus mourns
Painting by Jacopo Vignali

Horror swept through his mortal frame, and cold dread, when he saw no boar thrashing at the foot of the tree. Unknowingly, unwillingly, oblivious, Cyparissus had cast the deadly dart, but his worst nightmare had it transfixed upon its brazen point. There lay the mighty stag, and never a more tragic sight there lay. The hideous truth of his error laid bare, the young boy fell to his knees, tears welled up inside. The stag writhed in pain, blood spattering the forest floor, its cries rending the air. Frantically, Cyparissus tried to staunch the wound, but the hands of a boy are scarce enough to stem the flow of blood that gushed forth that day. Calling out in desperation, the folly dawned upon him, and his heart began to break. At last, the cries grew silent, the body still, and the stag lay motionless, its staring into the wilderness. Cyparissus howled to the skies. He would have taken his own life there and then, had not Phoebus Apollo, lord of the Sun, taken pity on the boy. Had not his burning rays caused the boy's aim to go wide... Cyparissus, determined to feel his guilt for all time, and expiate his crime, asked the god to allow him to mourn for all time. Himself fighting back his tears, Apollo granted his final wish, moved was he. The blood drained from the boy, his legs fused together, and leaves grew where one was his skin, and hard weeping bark underneath. A thin and lanky young boy, so too was the form of the tree which he took.

Apollo looked on in grief, and declared that this was ever after to be present at the ritual of mourning, and the tree was named. Cypress, the tree of mourning. Still today it watches over graves...



United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

The Flute and the Flayed

Ancient lore is ripe with tales of gods and monster, heroes and heroines and their wars, affairs and voyages. Oft is fate written in the stars, virtue praised and pride punished. When mortals rise above their stations, they are punished. But the divine powers are flawed too. Sometimes even the gods could go too far...

Athena
2nd Century AD Roman copy of a Greek original

Legend says that a long time ago, in the Golden Age of the Olympians and heroes, the goddess Athena, daughter of Zeus the Thunderer, was wandering in the sunny vales of the forest of Phrygia. The goddess' chaste ears pricked up at the sound of the birdsong in the breeze, a soothing accompaniment to the percussion of the rustling leaves. Filled with a peculiar joy, she was filled with a passion to make merry in the forest. Taking from the leaf strewn earth the bones of a young doe, the goddess fashioned from them a strange instrument. Whittling a series of pipes from the matter, she lashed them together and considered her new craft. With a modest intrigue, she placed the pipes to her mouth and blew. What a fair sound it was indeed; a soft vibration, a gentle melody and hypnotising note. Spurred on, bolstered by the music of the forest, the virgin goddess could scarcely put them down. Soon her absence was noted on the snowy peaks of lofty Olympus, and gossip flew to and fro, from scheming god and intrigued goddess. All too happy to share her new art, Athena proposed to show them all the sweet sounds at a lavish banquet in Heaven's Halls.


The eve came and the resplendent array of the skies awaited, fascinated by what was to come. When the moment came, the goblets were empty, the ambrosia consumed, the goddess rose to her feet. Brimming with excitement and nerves, she began to play. In the beginning, all was well, as the dulcet tune serenaded the divine array, and seldom were such sweet tones heard in the Palace of Olympus. Zeus the father of gods and men looked merrily on, proud of his daughter's talents. Hephaestus, master of the forge, sat entranced by the music so seldom heard in the roar of the furnace. Ares, lord of war, for whom the screams of the dying were oft his cadence, could scarce hide his delight. But it was then that the eyes of Pallas Athena saw Hera and Aphrodite. Far from listening with rapture, it was with a fits of laughter they returned her song. Though fair and noble, terrible could be the warrior maiden's fury. In anger she departed, seeking solace in the wilderness. When strolling the paths of the Forest of Ida, she stopped by a great pool of glassy water, her joy poisoned by doubt. She took up the pipes once more, and for the last time did she play. In the soft ripples of the water did she see her image cast, and within was held the revelation she sought. She had not noticed until now that as she played, she puffed her cheeks out proudly, their oft white complexion soon a crimson red. Frustrated by the immaturity of her fellow goddesses, with whom she bore a ruinous rivalry, she cast her creation aside. Laying upon the pipes a curse, she vowed calamity upon whomsoever should play them again. Woe that her malediction should have found a mark.

Marsyas in the Forest
Painting by Pyotr Basin

One day, when the memory of the pipes had passed into legend, there lived a shepherd who made Forest of Ida his serene home. His name was Marsyas the son of Oeagrus, and no man was he, but a Satyr. A servant of the god Bacchus, the Satyrs lived a merry life of revelry, dancing and song, frequently spreading havoc and drunken anarchy where their cloven feet trod. Marsyas, however, possessed a gentler spirit, preferring the solitude of the forest to the chaos of the plains. There came a day, however, that neither the Satyr nor the forest would ever forget. Stumbling upon a clearing in the thick canopy of the trees, where lay a crystal pool of ice cool water, Marsyas stopped to refresh. Throwing the pleasant water over his face, he gave a sigh of satisfaction, droplets from his tangled beard breaking the mirror like reflection of the surface. Turning to dry his face, however, he spotted a strange yet curious thing cast in the bushes at the water's edge. Stained with earth and covered in moss, it seemed a relic of an ancient past. Picking the strange object up, the Satyr, acquainted as all Satyrs are with the ways of merriment, realised at once that it bore the form of an instrument. Scraping aside the grime and muck, dousing it in the clear water, he saw the simple pipes in their fresh glory.


Tentatively, the Satyr put the pipes to his lips and blew. The note was rough, but charming. He blew again. Better, but a shade of the performance of the instruments original creator. For an age did Marsyas obsess over the pipes, unable to resist the allure he could not explain, the will to keep playing. Throughout the hours when the sun drenches the Earth did the Satyr practice anew, studious and assiduous. Day by day the Satyr's prowess grew, and with his talent came music sweeter than ever before. Birds began to perch upon nearby boughs, listening intently to Marsyas' song, the notes fairer even than their own. Creatures and being from far and wide began to marvel at the Satyr's song, but before long the curse began to manifest. Pride, the ruin of the great, wove its intoxicating spell in the Satyr's mind, as his humility could deflect the shower of praise no more. Time passed, and soon Marsyas declared himself a musician beyond compare in the world. The fatal hour arrived when the Satyr challenged Apollo, the god of music himself, to a contest.


High on Olympus, Apollo heard his challenge, and the god was angered by the daring of a mortal. Soaring down from the frozen summit, Phoebus Apollo came before Marsyas, and the admiring crowds scattered in fear and awe. Shaking with rage, Apollo declared the contest begun. The Muses, the spirits of the arts, were summoned to judge, and the terms were set. Whoever showed the greater mastery of music would triumph, and the victor won the right to treat the defeated as he pleased. Alas that Marsyas was deaf to the subtle warning that lay veiled within, as the curse brandished its edge, and the proud Satyr accepted. The stage was set. Marsyas took the pipes his beloved pipes, Apollo the lyre with which he was so skilled. The god played first. What ambience the grove had never known! With each pluck of the god's fingers upon the strings, soothed was the soul of all beings present, and the Muses sighed in awe of their master. When the god finished his piece, all gathered saw the end coming for the Satyr. But Marsyas, spurred on by the curse, boldly raised the pipes to his lips. With a jolt the gathered assembly was stunned into silence. With each honey soaked note, the very forest itself seemed to sing, vibrating with raw power. All earthly woes lay distant and forgotten for all mortals there that day, and warmed were the hearts of the Muses. Incensed by fire, alas, was the heart of Apollo. Just as the Satyr neared the boundary of the grove, victory near at hand, the god called to him. If the Satyr could play as he could now, Apollo would concede defeat. Intrigued, yet proud, Marsyas agreed. Without delay did the sun god spin his lyre around, striking a haunting melody, his instrument upside down. The Muses, delighted, applauded the god's performance, before turning to Marsyas, expectant. With a glint of malice in his eye, well did Apollo know that it was impossible to play the pipes upside down. Too late did the Satyr realise this too. His mouth went dry with terror, as the judges were struck with disappointment. To the son of Zeus was triumph assigned, and to the Satyr, ignoble defeat

Marsyas Flayed
Painting by Titian

Near dumbstruck, the Satyr watched helplessly as the god approached, vengeance that only a god could muster flaming in his eyes. Poor Marsyas searched for words but none could be found, none to quench the fire before him now. Hands grabbed him from all around, and terror flooded his veins. Thus was begun a punishment terrible to behold. Strapped to a nearby oak was the quivering Satyr, and tightly bound. The servants of Apollo seized their blades and descended upon poor Marsyas.







                  " 'Why do you tear me from myself, he cries?
                     Ah cruel! Must my flesh be made the prize?
                     This for a mere pipe?' He roaring said,
                     Meanwhile the skin from off his limbs were flay'd.
                     All bare, and raw, one large continu'd wound,
                     With streams of blood his body bath'd the ground.
                     The blueish veins their trembling pulse disclos'd,
                     The stringy nerves lay naked and expos'd;
                     His guts appear'd, distinctly each express'd,
                    With ev'ry shining fibre of his breast... "
                      - THE PUNISHMENT OF MARSYAS


His muffled screams were the last song of Marsyas, raw muscle and tendon bare to the elements now. Such was the justice of Apollo, so great the price of a mortal daring to raise himself above a god.

But not all beings shared Apollo's wrath. The fauns, silvans, nymphs, naiads and spirits of the forest, once serenaded by the Satyr's song, came to his mutilated corpse. Tears flowed from their eyes at their gaping loss, the knowledge that his pure song might never woo them again. It is said that even vengeful Apollo himself was later moved to regret, and not readily did he string his lyre in ages to come, remorseful of his act. "With their tears that flow'd, a kindly moisture on the earth bestow'd, that soon, conjoin'd, and in a body rang'd, sprung from the ground, to limpid water chang'd; which, down thro' Phrygia's rocks, a mighty stream, comes tumbling to the sea, and Marsya is its name..."

Like poor Actaeon before him, Marsyas felt the terrible fate of stumbling innocently in the path of a god. It was the folly of a fool to violate the laws of Heaven, but to challenge them openly, why only those blind to all other things would dice with such death. Nevertheless, even in the ancient world there were many who questioned the magnitude of poor Marsyas' punishment...

United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)