Over the wine-dark sea.

He knew the things that were and the things that would be and the things that had been before.

Tell me, O muse, of travellers far and wide

Will cast the spear and leave the rest to Jove.

Miserable mortals who like leaves at one moment flame with life eating the produce of the land and at another moment weakly perish.

Like a girl, a baby running after her mother, begging to be picked up, and she tugs on her skirts, holding her back as she tries to hurry off—all tears, fawning up at her, till she takes her in her arms… That’s how you look, Patroclus, streaming live tears.

Tell me, O Muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy.