leaves and laurels, and a sound in the tops of the pines, and then his
face was fanned by a breath more cold than the wind that wakes the dawn.
At the touch of this breath the Wanderer shuddered, and the hair on his
flesh stood up, so cold was the strange wind.

There was silence; and he heard a voice, and he knew that it was the
voice of no mortal, but of a goddess. For the speech of goddesses was
not strange in his ears; he knew the clarion cry of Athene, the Queen of
Wisdom and of War; and the winning words of Circe, the Daughter of the
Sun, and the sweet song of Calypso's voice as she wove with her golden
shuttle at the loom. But now the words came sweeter than the moaning of
doves, more soft than sleep. So came the golden voice, whether he woke
or whether he dreamed.

"Odysseus, thou knowest me not, nor am I thy lady, nor hast thou ever
been my servant! Where is she, the Queen of the Air, Athene, and why
comest _thou_ here as a suppliant at the knees of the daughter of
Dione?"

He answered nothing, but he bowed his head in deeper sorrow.

The voice spake again:

"Behold, thy house is desolate; thy hearth is cold. The wild hare breeds
on thy hearthstone, and the night-bird roosts beneath thy roof-tree.
Thou hast neither child nor wife nor native land, and _she_ hath
forsaken thee--thy Lady Athene. Many a time didst thou sacrifice to her
the thighs of kine and sheep, but didst thou ever give so much as a
pair of dove to _me_? Hath she left thee, as the Dawn forsook Tithonus,
because there are now threads of silver in the darkness of thy hair? Is