But Poseidon, returning from the Ethiopians, saw him from the Solymi mountains and was the more angered: while he was among the Ethiopians the gods had changed their minds — yet he would drive Odysseus to enough trouble still. He gathered the clouds, stirred the sea with his trident, raised every wind, and covered land and sea with cloud. Night rushed from heaven. East and South and West and North clashed, rolling a great wave.
Odysseus’s knees loosed: the goddess had spoken truly; three and four times blessed those Danaans who died at Troy about Achilles — then he would have had his rites and fame; now a wretched death. A great wave whirled the raft; he fell far and lost the steering-oar. The mast snapped; sail and yard went into the sea.
The wave held him under — Calypso’s clothes weighed him down — until he came up spitting bitter brine. He lunged, caught the raft, and sat on it. The winds tossed it like thistle-tufts in harvest — South to North, East to West.