Now when that brightest star, the harbinger Of Morning, daughter of the Dawn, arose, The barque had passed the sea, and reached the isle.
A port there is in Ithaca, the haunt Of Phorcys, Ancient of the Sea. Steep shores Stretch inward toward each other, and roll back The mighty surges which the hoarse winds hurl Against them from the ocean, while within Ships ride without their hawsers when they once Have passed the haven’s mouth. An olive-tree With spreading branches at the farther end Of that fair haven stands, and overbrows A pleasant shady grotto of the nymphs Called Naiads. Cups and jars of stone are ranged Within, and bees lay up their honey there.
There from their spindles wrought of stone the nymphs Weave their sea-purple robes, which all behold With wonder; there are ever-flowing springs.
Two are the entrances: one toward the north By which men enter; but a holier one Looks toward the south, nor ever mortal foot May enter there. By that way pass the gods.
They touched the land, for well they knew the spot. The galley, urged so strongly by the arms Of those who plied the oar, ran up the beach Quite half her length. And then the crew came forth From the good ship, and first they lifted out Ulysses