Book V

region round. Between two shrubs that sprang Both from one spot he entered⁠—olive-trees, One wild, one fruitful. The damp-blowing wind Ne’er pierced their covert; never blazing sun Darted his beams within, nor pelting shower Beat through, so closely intertwined they grew. Here entering, Ulysses heaped a bed Of leaves with his own hands; he made it broad And high, for thick the leaves had fallen around. Two men and three, in that abundant store, Might bide the winter storm, though keen the cold. Ulysses, the great sufferer, on his couch Looked and rejoiced, and placed himself within, And heaped the leaves high o’er him and around, As one who, dwelling in the distant fields, Without a neighbor near him, hides a brand In the dark ashes, keeping carefully The seeds of fire alive, lest he, perforce, To light his hearth must bring them from afar; So did Ulysses in that pile of leaves Bury himself, while Pallas o’er his eyes Poured sleep, and closed his lids, that he might take, After his painful toils, the fitting rest.