Penelope, the screaming is all over,
Put aside that cushion!
He’s returned, your broad-browed ocean rover
To son and kingly station.
And his horses too, and his retainers,
Bed made out of olive …
The enchantress could not long detain him,
Nor those on Olympus.
The blade now wiped, see rage to sweetness alter,
A lion breathing …
And since his mighty sword-arm did not falter—
No innocents lie bleeding!
Punishment descended on the wicked
With proper lawful sentence.
Slaves will wipe the blood off the mosaic—
Then happiness commences.
Translated by Alan Myers