We came next to the floating island of Aeolus son of Hippotas, dear to the deathless gods. A bronze wall runs unbroken round it. He has six sons and six daughters; he married them to one another, and they feast forever in their father’s halls. For a month he hosted me and heard the whole tale of Troy and the bitter voyage.
When I asked for convoy home he gave it gladly. He flayed a nine-year ox, bagged all the winds inside the hide, and tied the mouth with a silver cord so not a breath could leak. He left only the West Wind free to carry us. He meant it for the best. It was not to be. Our own folly ruined us.
For nine days and nights we ran without stop. On the tenth our native land already showed; we were so close we saw men tending fires. Then sweet sleep came on me, worn out — I had been holding the sheet myself the whole time, never handing it to a companion, so we might reach home the sooner.
My crew whispered that I was bringing home gold and silver from Aeolus and opened the bag to see. The winds burst out together and the storm snatched us weeping back to open sea, away from our land. I woke and thought of drowning myself, then endured and lay covered while the gale drove us again to Aeolus’s island.
We found him at feast with his wife and children. I begged a second help, saying sleep and my worthless friends had ruined us. He answered that it was not right to help a man the gods hated — I should go, and quickly. So we left, heartsick, with no wind-gift this time, and rowed on by our own strength.
From there we rowed on with grieving hearts. The men’s spirit was worn down by the hard rowing — our folly — for there was no longer any wind showing to help us. Six days, night and day, we pulled until the Laestrygonian coast rose ahead.