From Ovid's "Metamorphoses", Book VI:

....She sat bereft
Amid her sons, her daughters and her husband,
All lifeless corpses, rigid in her ruin,
Her hair no breeze can stir; her cheeks are drained
And bloodless; in her doleful face her eyes
Stare fixed and hard - a likeness without life.
So too inside; that tongue of hers congeals;
Her palate's hard; no pulse beats in her veins;
No way for neck to bend nor arms to wave
Nor feet to walk; and all within is stone.
Yet still she weeps, and in a whirling wind
Is swept back to her homeland. Fastened there
Upon a mountain peak she pines away,
And tears drip from that marble to this day.