Twain are the gates of Sleep; one framed, 'tis said, Of horn, which easy exit doth invite For real shades to issue from the dead.
One with the gleam of polished ivory bright, Whence only lying visions leave the night.
Through this Anchises, talking by the way, Sends forth the son and Sibyl to the light.
Back hastes AEneas to his friends, and they Straight to Caieta steer, and anchor in her bay..