I too have had my longings. Am I not Penelope, who, when Ulysses came To Sparta, and Icarius bade her choose Betwixt her sire and wooer, veiled her face And stept upon the galley silver-oared, And since hath kept thine Ithacensian halls? Then when the hateful Helen fled to Troy With Paris, and the Argive chieftains sailed Then ships to Aulis, I would have thee go— Presaging fame, and power, and spoils of war. So ten years passed; meanwhile I reared thy son To know his father’s wisdom, and, apart Among my maidens, wove the yellow wool. But then, returning one by one, they came,— The island-princes; high-born dames of Crete And Cephalonia saw again their lords; Only Ulysses came not; yet the war Was over, and his vessels, like a troop Of cranes in file, had spread their wings for home. More was unknown. Then many a winter’s night The servants piled great fagots, smeared with tar, High on the palace-roof; with mine own hands I fired the heaps, that, haply, far away On the dark waters, might my lord take heart And know the glory of his kingly towers. So winter passed; and summer came and went, And winter and another summer; then— Alas, how many weary months and days! But he I loved came not. Meanwhile thou knowest Pelasgia’s noblest chiefs, with kingly gifts And pledge of dower, gathered in the halls; But still this heart kept faithful, knowing yet Thou wouldst return, though wrecked on alien shores. And great Athenè often in my dreams Shone, uttering words of cheer. But, last of all, The people rose, swearing a king should rule, To keep their ancient empery of the isles Inviolate and thrifty: bade me choose A mate, nor longer dally. Then I prayed Respite, until the web within my loom, Of gold and purple curiously devised For old Laertes’ shroud, should fall complete From hands still faithful to his blood. Thou knowest How like a ghost I left my couch at night, Unravelling the labor of the day, And warded off the fate, till came that time When my lost sea-king thundered in his halls, And with long arrows clove the suitors’ hearts. So constant was I! now not thirty moons Go by, and thou forgettest all. Alas! What profit is there any more in love? What thankless sequel hath a woman’s faith! Yet if thou wilt,—in these thy golden years, Safe-housed in royalty, like a god revered By all the people,—if thou yearnest yet Once more to dare the deep and Neptune’s hate, I will not linger in a widowed age; I will not lose Ulysses, hardly found After long vigils; but will cleave about Thy neck, with more than woman’s prayers and tears, Until thou take me with thee. As I left My sire, I leave my son, to follow where Ulysses goeth, dearer for the strength Of that great heart which ever drives him on To large experience of newer toils!