The Seventh Circle: The Violent Against Themselves (Suicides)** No green leaves, but of dusky hue, No smooth branches, but gnarled and intertangled, No fruits were there, but thorns with poison laden. These were the rough, inhospitable woods, Wherein abide the beasts of prey that shun The haunts of man, both broken boughs and gnarled. Here the foul Harpies make their nest, who chased The Trojans from the Strophades with dire Announcement of impending woe. Wide wings have they, and human necks and faces, And feet with claws, and their great bellies fledged; They make laments upon the wondrous trees. And the good Master: "Ere thou enter farther, Know that thou art within the second round," Thus he began to say, "and shalt be, till Thou come upon the horrible sand; and heed The coming and the dreadful; and already Beholding them, can see what kind of fount. There breaketh forth from this place, so sore in pain, A lamentation which with horror rends The thickets, as 't were only sound of sorrow."
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