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Theodore Stephanides
Odysseus
I loved that island home of mine too well,
Too well I loved each cape, each rock, each tree;
Each had become a living nerve of me,
A fibre of my soul, another spell
To fetter me to Ithaca's sweet shore.
The scent of thyme and myrtle haunts me still,
The skirl of the cicada seems to feel
My universe. I dream and see once more
A sitting sun rise in my memory
To gild anew the whole horizon round,
Remembered hills reflected on the wave.
All this I see and yet I cannot see,
I cannot hear or feel - I lie eartbound,
For I am homesick still beyond the grave.
(from "The Golden Face", 1965)
Odysseus
I loved that island home of mine too well,
Too well I loved each cape, each rock, each tree;
Each had become a living nerve of me,
A fibre of my soul, another spell
To fetter me to Ithaca's sweet shore.
The scent of thyme and myrtle haunts me still,
The skirl of the cicada seems to feel
My universe. I dream and see once more
A sitting sun rise in my memory
To gild anew the whole horizon round,
Remembered hills reflected on the wave.
All this I see and yet I cannot see,
I cannot hear or feel - I lie eartbound,
For I am homesick still beyond the grave.
(from "The Golden Face", 1965)
