And Odysseus, his great mind teeming:
"My Lord Alcinous, what could be finer
Than listening to a singer of tales
Such as Demodocus, with a voice like a god's?
|Nothing we do is sweeter than this—||5|
Sitting side by side throughout the halls,
Feasting and listening to a singer of tales,
The tables filled with food and drink,
|The server drawing wine from the bowl||10|
For me, this is the finest thing in the world.
But you have a mind to draw out of me
My pain and sorrow, and make me feel it again.
|Where should I begin, where end my story?||15|
I will tell you my name first, so that you, too,
Will know who I am, and when I escape
The day of my doom, I will always be
|Your friend and host, though my home is far.||20|
Known for my cunning throughout the world,
And my fame reaches even to heaven.
My native land is Ithaca, a sunlit island
|With a forested peak called Neriton,||25|
Lie close around her—Doulichion, Samê,
And wooded Zacynthos—off toward the sunrise,