Rest Beneath the Olives

43Yet, as he longer pondered, this seemed best.
He rose, and sought the wood, and found it near
The water, on a height, overlooking far
The region round. Between two shrubs that sprang
Both from one spot he entered —olive-trees,
One wild, one fruitful. The damp-blowing wind
Never pierced their covert; never blazing sun
Darted his beams within, nor pelting shower
Beat through, so closely intertwined they grew.
Here entering, Odysseus heaped a bed
Of leaves with his own hands; he made it broad
And high, for thick the leaves had fallen around.
Two men and three, in that abundant store,
Might bide the winter storm, though keen the cold.
Odysseus, the great sufferer, on his couch
Looked and rejoiced, and placed himself within,
And heaped the leaves high over him and around,
As one who, dwelling in the distant fields,
Without a neighbor near him, hides a brand
In the dark ashes, keeping carefully
The seeds of fire alive, lest he, perforce,
To light his hearth must bring them from afar;
So did Odysseus in that pile of leaves
Bury himself, while Athena over his eyes
Poured sleep, and closed his lids, that he might take,
After his painful toils, the fitting rest.