But he did find
his father, alone, on that well-worked plot,
spading round a sapling – clad in filthy rags,
in a patched, unseemly shirt, and round his shins
he had some oxhide leggings strapped, patched too,
to keep from getting scraped, and gloves on his hands
to fight against the thorns, and on his head
he wore a goatskin skullcap
to cultivate his misery that much more…
Long-enduring Odysseus, catching sight of him now –
a man worn down with years, his heart racked with sorrow –
halted under a branching pear-tree, paused and wept.
Debating, head and heart, what should he do now?
Kiss and embrace his father, pour out the long tale –
how he had made the journey home to native land –
or probe him first and test him every way?
– Homer