My home is on the peaked sea-mark of Ithaca under Mount Neion's wind-blown robe of leaves, in sight of other islandsÑDulichium, Same, wooded ZacynthusÑIthaca being most lofty in that coastal sea, And this new grief we bore with us to sea: our precious lives we had, but not our friends. No ship made sail next day until some shipmate had raised a cry, three times, for each poor ghost unfleshed by the Cicones on that field. They fell in, soon enough, with Lotus-Eaters, who showed no will to do us harm, only offering the sweet Lotus to our friendsÑ but those who ate this honeyed plant, the Lotus, never cared to report, nor to return: I drove them, all three wailing, to the ships, tied them down under their rowing benches, and called the rest: 'All hands aboard; come, clear the beach and no one taste the Lotus, or you lose your hope of home.'