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Would that I could flee to secret clefts in the high mountains, and that there a god might make of me a feathered bird amid the wingèd throngs!  Would that I might soar aloft over the surf of the Adriatic shore and the waters of the Eridanus where into the deep-blue swell the luckless  girls, in grief for Phaethon, drop the amber radiance of their tears.1
1 Phaethon's sisters, in grief for his fall, were changed into amber-dropping trees.