“Her tresses smelt of the blooms of Hymettus,
Her breasts were cymbals sweet to behold;
Her voice was a harp of pearl and silver—
But even I found this growing old.
“Her Lips were like the flame of a taper
Scented and musical, as she would fold
White arms over the brawn of my shoulders—
But even I found this growing old.
“She promised me this and youth forever,
So long as the sun and the planets rolled.
I knew they were gifts she could not give me,
Empty promises too grow old.
“And even if given, why forever
Live the things that have grown enough?
She loved me, wonderful Calypso.
But what is love? It is only love.
“And the salt of a man turns to his doorway,
He makes his will for his blood at the end.
My boy, that’s why I left Calypso
And came to you—do you comprehend?
“To sit unshorn, and clothed as I choose,
Talk with the swineherd, potter or shirk,
Babble at ease, my boy, with your mother
Around the house at rest or at work.
“And you must not forget, Telemachus,
In order to have immortality
It had to be with Calypso—therefore
I came to you and Penelope,
“Who soon will leave me, at best, or else
I’ll leave you for the Isles of the Blest.
I find this doorway good, Telemachus,
As a place to dream and a place to rest.”
“I do not understand, Ulysses,
Father of me. At first the call
Of the blood, I thought, would hasten you homeward.
And now I wonder you came at all
“Here to Ithaca. What, my father,
Is here but my mother growing old;
Aged Lærtes, Telemachus—
What of Calypso’s hair of gold?