Book XI

“I spake; my reverend mother answered thus:⁠— ‘Most certain is it that she sadly dwells Still in thy palace. Weary days and nights And tears are hers. No man has taken yet Thy place as ruler, but Telemachus Still has the charge of thy domain, and gives The liberal feasts which it befits a prince To give, for all invite him. In the fields Thy father dwells, and never in the town Is seen; nor beds nor cloaks has he, nor mats Of rich device, but, all the winter through, He sleeps where sleep the laborers, on the hearth, Amid the dust, and wears a wretched garb; And when the summer comes, or autumn days Ripen the fruit, his bed is on the ground, And made of leaves, that everywhere are shed In the rich vineyards. There he lies and grieves, And, cherishing his sorrow, mourns thy fate, And keenly feels the miseries of age. And thus I underwent my fate and died; For not the goddess of the unerring bow Stealing upon me smote me in thy halls With silent arrows, nor did slow disease Come o’er me, such as, wasting cruelly The members, takes at last the life away; But constant longing for thee, anxious thoughts Of thee, and