And now the ship coasted a lofty point
Of rocky Ithaca. And, twixt two hills
A garth there was, well-tilled, Laertes’ field,
The ancient king’s: therein an orchard rich
Where pear-trees stood, and apples, row on row,
That once Laertes gave to his dear son
Who thro’ the vineyard followed, begging this
And that, among the slim new-planted trees.
Here now, ten apple-trees and thirteen pears
Stood white with blossom in a close-set clump,
And in the shade of one—the fairest—stood
An old man, turning towards the boundless sea
Where roared the sudden squall—with up-raised hand
Lessening the light above his wearied eyes—
Strained his weak gaze after the flying ship.
This was his father: but Odysseus’ heart,
Floating profound in sleep, beheld him not.