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A distant sound of water rippling

A faint disturbance

That moves the foggy air

From the caverns that rise before me

A shadow dances through the murk

As one who dares

To traverse these waters

I too must pay to cross these shores

A dark procession of orderly souls

One by one they board the sacred boat

A journey far across those whirlpools

Beyond the reach of Apollo's light

Waters as filthy as the old man himself

His beard and clothes reek of ages old

But sail upon the wind of lamentation

My friends, and about your head row

With your hands rapid stroke

In conveyance of the dead

(Aeschylus, seven against Thebes)

I see him there at the oars

Of his little boat in the lake

The ferryman of the Dead, Rharon

With his hand upon the oar

And he calls me now

"What keeps you? Hurry!"

(Euripides, Alceslis)