To this the sage Penelope replied:
“Nay, sir, ’tis not through pride or disregard, Or through excess of wonder, that I act Thus toward thee. Well do I remember thee As thou wert in the day when thy good ship Bore thee from Ithaca. Bestir thyself, Dame Eurycleia, and make up with care A bed without the chamber, which he framed With his own hands; bear out the massive bed, And lay upon it seemly coverings, Fleeces and mantles for his nightly rest.”
She spake to try her husband; but, displeased, Ulysses answered thus his virtuous queen:—
“O woman, thou hast said unwelcome words. Who hath displaced my bed? That task were hard For long-experienced hands, unless some god Had come to shift its place. No living man, Even in his prime of years, could easily Have moved it, for in that elaborate work There was a mystery; it was I myself Who shaped it, no one else.
Within my court There grew an olive-tree with full-leaved boughs, A tall and flourishing tree; its massive stem Was like a column. Round it I built up A chamber with cemented stones until The walls were finished; then I framed a roof Above it, and put on the well-glued doors Close fitting.
Next I lopped the full-leaved boughs, And, cutting off the trunk above the root, Smoothed well the stump with tools, and made of it A post to bear the couch. I bored the wood With wimbles, placed on it the frame, and carved The work till it was done, inlaying it With silver, gold, and ivory. I stretched Upon it thongs of oxhide brightly dyed In purple.
Now, O wife, I cannot know Whether my bed remains as then it was, Or whether someone from the root has hewn The olive trunk, and moved it from its place.”