Homer

Whose white bones now are mouldering in the rain

O Goddess! Sing the wrath of Peleus’ son, Achilles; sing the deadly wrath that brought Woes numberless upon the Greeks, and swept To Hades many a valiant soul

And who could bear to sleep beside a whale?

If thou art brave, some deity, no doubt, Hath thus endowed thee.

Lying on the dark ocean like a shield.

Even the pleasant feast Will lose its flavor when embittered thus.

Wrong prospers not; the slow o’ertakes the swift.

Thy harp will not avail, Nor all the gifts of Venus, nor thy locks, Nor thy fair form, when thou art laid in dust.

For there is naught More sweet and dear than our own native land And parents, though perchance our lot be cast In a rich home, yet far from our own kin And in a foreign land.

Small blame is theirs, if both the Trojan knights And brazen-mailed Achaians have endured So long so many evils for the sake Of that one woman.

The root is black, The blossom white as milk. Among the gods Its name is Moly; hard it is for men To dig it up; the gods find nothing hard.

Who rises small at first, but grows, and lifts Her head to heaven and walks upon the earth.

Then like a dream the soul Flies off, and flits about from place to place.

Like the race of leaves Is that of humankind.

I would be A laborer on earth, and serve for hire Some man of mean estate, who makes scant cheer, Rather than reign o’er all who have gone down To death.

Hector, thou Art father and dear mother now to me, And brother and my youthful spouse besides.

’Twas in truth the saddest sight, Whatever I have suffered and where’er Have roamed the waters, that mine eyes have seen.

Received him, weeping as she smiled.

For as the gates of hell do I detest The man who, tempted by his poverty, Deceives with lying words.

Hateful to me, as are the gates of hell, Is he who, hiding one thing in his heart, Utters another.