Aeolus, the Lestrigonians, and Circè

“I spake; the mighty goddess answered me:⁠— ‘Son of Laertes, nobly born and wise, Take thou no thought of who shall guide thy barque, But raise the mast and spread the glimmering sail, And seat thyself, and let the north-wind waft Thy galley on. As soon as thou shalt cross Océanus, and come to the low shore And groves of Proserpine, the lofty groups Of poplars, and the willows that let fall Their withered fruit, moor thou thy galley there In the deep eddies of Océanus, And pass to Pluto’s comfortless abode. There into Acheron are poured the streams Of Pyriphlegethon, and of that arm Of Styx, Cocytus. At the place where meet The ever-roaring waters stands a rock; Draw near to that, and there I bid thee scoop In earth a trench, a cubit long and wide. And round about it pour to all the dead Libations⁠—milk and honey first, and next Rich wine, and lastly water, scattering White meal upon them. Offer there thy prayer Fervently to that troop of airy forms, And make the vow that thou wilt sacrifice, When thou at last shalt come to Ithaca, A heifer without blemish, barren yet, In thine own courts, and heap the altar-pyre With things of price; and to the seer alone, Tiresias, by himself, a ram whose fleece Is wholly black, the best of