And now above the ship, from prow to stern,
The sailors’ furious words like arrows sped
In shuddering flight. The eager-homing ship
Abreast the harbour of Phorkyne sailed.
Ahead of it stood out the olive tree,
Large, goodly-boughed; and near to it a cave,
A cave sonorous with much-busied bees
As they in wine-bowls and in jars of stone
Perform sweet task of honey. One could see
The stony street o’ the town; the houses white
Climbing the hill; distinguish, ’mid the green
Of water-loving alders, the fair fount,
The altar white, the high-raised, goodly roof—
Odysseus’ high-raised steading. Now, perchance,
The shuttle whistled through the warp, and ’neath
The weary fingers grew again the web
Ample, immortal.—Yet, nor saw, nor heard
Odysseus’ mighty heart, quite lost in sleep.