I took twelve of my best and a goatskin of dark sweet wine Maron the priest of Apollo had given me at Ismarus — twelve jars, unmixed, a drink for gods — for my heart guessed I would meet a wild man clothed in great strength. We found a high cave near the sea, pens for lambs and kids, racks of cheeses, pails of whey. The owner was out at pasture.
My men begged me to take cheeses and kids and run for the ship. I would not — it would have been far better if I had — for I wanted to see the man and test what guest-gifts he might offer. We lit a fire, ate some cheeses, and sat waiting.
Toward evening he came — a monstrous bulk, not like a bread-eating man but like a wooded peak — herding his fat flocks, and flung down a load of firewood with a crash that drove us into the corners. He drove in what he milked, left the males in the yard, and set a door-stone no twenty-two wagons could shift.
He milked, curdled half for cheese, lit his fire, saw us, and asked in a booming voice who we were — traders or pirates. Our hearts broke for fear, but I answered that we were Achaeans blown off course from Troy, men of Agamemnon’s fame, and begged the welcome due to strangers under Zeus the guest-god.
He answered without pity that Cyclopes care nothing for Zeus or the blessed gods — they are stronger. He asked where our ship lay. I lied: Poseidon had smashed her on the rocks, and we had swam ashore. Then he snatched two of my men, dashed them like puppies against the floor, and ate them raw — guts, flesh, and marrow — washed down with milk, and slept.
All that night after the first killing we sat in the dark listening to him breathe among the flocks. No one slept. Each of us knew that if we killed him where he lay we would die with him behind that stone.