“We watch the fleeting isles of shade
That float upon the sea
When ’neath the sun some cloud hath spread
His purple canopy.
The woodbine odours scent the air,
The cypress’ leaves are wet
From meadow springs that rise among
Parsley and violet.
Here shall the Wanderer remain;
The land of Love’s Delight;
Shall here forget the past, the old
Sad spectres of the night.”
Soft and low the sea-maidens sang while Ulysses lay sleeping—even as they had sung nine long years ago when the sea cast him up on the shores of Calypso’s kingdom.
It was bright sunlight, a great fire of cedar wood burnt on an altar before the cave of the goddess who loved the hero, and the smoke scented all the island.
Among the grove of stately trees which bordered the smooth pneumatic lawn in front of the cave Ulysses lay sleeping on a bed of fresh-born violets. A purple mantle shot with gold, woven by Calypso, was spread over him.
The poplars and fragrant cypresses were full of sweet-voiced birds.
Over the mouth of the cave grew a great vine, and the black grapes drooped and fell from it in their abundance.
From the centre of the short emerald grass four springs of clear water came up in thin whips and flowed away in flashing rivulets.
This was the home and kingdom of the Goddess Calypso, and was so beautiful a place that the fame of it had even reached Olympus, and the gods knew of the island.
And nine long years had passed! It was nine years ago that the pale gaunt waif of the sea—a sad jetsam!—had swooned upon the yellow sand, while the bright-haired lady of Ogygia had gazed in wonder upon him.