The father – though that word is hollow now –
cried: "Icarus! Where are you?" And that cry
echoed again, again till he caught sight
of feathers on the surface of the sea.
And Daedalus cursed his own artistry,
then built a tomb to house his dear son's body.
There, where the boy was buried, now his name
remains: that island is Icaria. (8.231-235)
As [Lichas] flies
high, through the air, he petrifies.
Even as rain – they say – grows more compact
when swept by icy winds, and turns to snow;
and those snow flakes, still soft, as they are whirled,
condense – and thicken into solid hail:
so, cast into the void by those stout arms,
frozen with fear, his body drained of sap,
dry Lichas is transformed into hard stone.
This is the way the tale – of old – was told.
And even now, in the Euboean sea,
a low shoal rises up, above deep eddies,
and keeps the traces of a human form.
And just as if this rock were sentient,
seamen are careful not to step in it;
and Lichas is the name they've given it. (9.216-229)
So Bacchus ordered, and the king obeyed.
He reached the source; and even as he bathed,
the waters – from the human form they washed –
took on the force that once lay in his touch:
the power to transform things into gold.
Even today, along Pactolus' shores,
the fields – which still receive the precious seed
from that old vein – are glittering, pale and cold: the stream that soaks the soil is streaked with gold. (11.142-145)