Nor would her fair white arms release his neck, And there would rosy-fingered Morn have found Both weeping, but the blue-eyed Pallas planned That thus it should not be; she stayed the night When near its close, and held the golden Morn Long in the ocean deeps, nor suffered her To yoke her steeds that bring the light to men— Lampas and Phaëthon, swift steeds that bear The Morning on her way. Ulysses then, The man of forecast, thus bespake his queen:—
“Not yet, O wife, have we attained the close Of all our labors. One remains which yet I must achieve, toilsome, and measureless In difficulty; for so prophesied The spirit of Tiresias, on the day When to the abode of Pluto I went down To ask the seer concerning the return Of my companions, and my own. But now Seek we our couch, dear wife, that, softly laid, We may refresh ourselves with welcome sleep.”
Then spake in turn the sage Penelope:
“Whenever thou desirest it thy couch Shall be made ready, since the gods vouchsafe To bring thee back into thy pleasant home And to thy native land. But now that thou Hast spoken of it, and some deity Is prompting thee, declare what this new task May be. Hereafter I shall hear of it, No doubt, nor were it worse to know it now.”
Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus: > “Dear wife, why wilt thou ask? why press me thus? Yet will I tell thee truly, nor will keep Aught from thee, though thou wilt not gladly hear, Nor I relate. Tiresias bade me pass Through city after city, till I found A people who know not the sea, nor eat Their food with salt, who never yet beheld The red-prowed galley, nor the shapely oars, Which are the wings of ships. And this plain sign He