O high machines, that kingdom ghostly wield,
O hushed and listening shades—and you, Abyss,
and you, O River Kindled—O darkland wastes
unspeaking—with mild heart on me for time
bestow forbearance great, that I might speak
of things by mist-cloak shrouded, hid beneath
our universe’s fragile-floating rind.

This sounds insufferably chuuni; it is one of the bits where I follow Vergil closest. Make of this what you will.