Στροφή

4 0 00

Στροφή

O fair wind blowing from the sea!

Who through the dark and mist dost guide

The ships that on the billows ride,

Unto what land, ah, misery!

Shall I be borne, across what stormy wave,

Or to whose house a purchased slave?

O sea-wind blowing fair and fast

Is it unto the Dorian strand,

Or to those far and fable shores,

Where great Apidanus outpours

His streams upon the fertile land,

Or shall I tread the Phthian sand,

Borne by the swift breath of the blast?