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We mortals hear only the news, and know nothing at all.

Homer

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Homer
Author
Poet
Writer
Homerus
Homeros
Mæonides
Mortals
News
Hear
Nothing

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See how God ever like with like doth pair, And still the worthless doth the worthless lead!
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Men are so quick to blame the gods: they say that we devise their misery. But they themselves- in their depravity- design grief greater than the griefs that fate assigns.
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I should rather labor as another's serf, in the home of a man without fortune, one whose livelihood was meager, than rule over all the departed dead.
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We all scribble poetry.
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All the survivors of the war had reached their homes and so put the perils of battle and the sea behind them.
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Like a girl, a baby running after her mother, begging to be picked up, and she tugs on her skirts, holding her back as she tries to hurry off—all tears, fawning up at her, till she takes her in her arms… That’s how you look, Patroclus, streaming live tears.
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Goddess-nurse of the young, give ear to my prayer, and grant that this woman may reject the love-embraces of youth and dote on grey-haired old men whose powers are dulled, but whose hearts still desire.
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To speak his thoughts is every freeman's right, in peace and war, in council and in fight.
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Look at me! I'm a puffy pink cloud!
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Accept these grateful tears...For thee they flow, for thee... That ever felt another's woe.
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The hearts of the great can be changed.
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Goddess of song, teach me the story of a hero.
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Rather I'd choose laboriously to bear A weight of woes, and breathe the vital air, A slave to some poor hind that toils for bread, Than reign the sceptred monarch of the dead.
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Who ne'er knew salt, or heard the billows roar.
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What mighty woes To thy imperial race from woman rose.
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Content to follow when we lead the way.
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It is not good to have a rule of many.
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Among all men on the earth bards have a share of honor and reverence, because the muse has taught them songs and loves the race of bards.
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By their own follies they perished, the fools.
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Anger, which, far sweeter than trickling drops of honey, rises in the bosom of a man like smoke.
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