‘I come,’ he said, ‘From Ithaca, a companion of Ulysses; My name is Achaemenides; my father, His name was Adamastus, was a poor man, And that was why I came to Troy. My comrades Left me behind here, in their terrible hurry, To leave these cruel thresholds. The Cyclops live here In a dark cave, a house of gore, and banquets Soaking with blood. It is dark inside there, monstrous. He hits the stars with his head--Dear gods, abolish This creature from the world!--he is not easy To look at; he is terrible to talk to. His food is the flesh of men, his drink their blood. I saw him once myself, with two of our men In that huge fist of his; he lay on his back In the midst of the cave, and smashed them on a rock, And the whole place swam with blood; I watched him chew them The limbs with black clots dripping, the muscles, warm, Quivering as he bit them. But we got him! Ulysses did not stand for this; he kept His wits about him, never mind the danger. The giant was gorged with food, and drunk, and lolling With sagging neck, sprawling all over the cavern Belching and drooling blood-clots, bits of flesh, And wine all mixed together. And we stood Around him, praying, and drew lots,--we had found a stake And sharpened it at the end,--and so we bored His big eye out; it glowered under his forehead The size of a shield, or a sun. So we got vengeance For the souls of our companions. But flee, I tell you, Get out of here, poor wretches, cut the cables, Forsake this shore. There are a hundred others As big as he is, and just like him, keeping Sheep in the caves of the rocks, a hundred others Wander around this coast and these high mountains. I have managed for three months, hiding in forests, In the caves of beasts, on a rocky look-out, watching The Cyclops, horribly frightened at their cries And the tramp of their feet. I have lived on plants and berries, Gnawed roots and bark. I saw this fleet come in, And I did not care; whatever it was, I gladly Gave myself up. At least, I have escaped them. Whatever death you give is more than welcome.’ And as he finished, we saw that very giant, The shepherd Polyphemus, looming huge Over his tiny flock; he was trying to find His way to the shore he knew, a shapeless monster, Lumbering, clumping, blind in the dark, with a stumble, And the step held up with trunk of a pine. No comfort For him, except in the sheep. He reached the sand, Wading into the sea, and scooped up water To wash the ooze of blood from the socket’s hollow, Grinding his teeth against the pain, and roaring, And striding into the water, but even so The waves were hardly up to his sides. We fled Taking on board our Greek; we cut the cable, Strained every nerve at the oars. He heard, and struggled