Wreathed

So to his shade, with funeral rites, we rear / a mound, and altars to the dead prepare, / wreathed with dark cypress. Round them, as of yore, / pace Troy's sad matrons, with their streaming hair. / Warm milk from bowls, and holy blood we pour, / and thrice with loud farewell the peaceful shade deplore.

When we met at the airport, she was wreathed in smiles.