Nine days, by moon and sun, the black ship sped,
Wind-borne, helm-guided, while the creaking ropes
Were governed by Odysseus’ cunning hand;
Nor—wearied—did he yield them, for the wind
Bore him on ever toward his country dear.
Nine days, by moon and sun, the black ship sped,
The hero’s eye seeking unwaveringly
The rocky isle ’mid the blue-twinkling waves:
Content if, ere he died, he saw again
Its smoke-wreaths rising blue into the air.
The tenth day, where the ninth day’s setting sun
Had vanished in a blinding blaze of gold,
He, peering, saw a shapeless blot of black:
Cloud was’t he saw, or land? And his grave eye
Swam, conquered by the sweetness of the dawn.
Far off Odysseus’ heart was rapt by sleep.