“Hear, sister Nereids, that ye all may know The sharpness of my sorrows. Woe is me, Unhappy! Woe is me! In evil hour, The mother of a hero⁠—me who gave Birth to so noble and so brave a son, The first among the warriors, saw him grow Like a green sapling, reared him like a plant Within a fruitful field, and sent him forth With his beaked ships to Ilium and the war Against the Trojans. Never shall I see That son returning to his home, the halls Of Peleus. While he lives and sees the light Of day his lot is sorrow, nor can I Help him in aught, though at his side; and yet I go to look on my beloved son, And learn from him what grief, while he remains Aloof from war, o’ertakes him in his tent.”