Homer
Μοῦσα, πάλιν μοι ἄειδε· πολὺς δ’ ἐπὶ κόσμος ἀκούει, ἄνθρωποι δ’ ἔτι πόντον ἀμέτρητον θυμῷ περόωσι. ἄλλαξαν μὲν νῆες, ἄλλαξαν δ’ ὁδοὶ ἀνθρώπων, αὐτὰρ ἔρως καὶ φόβος καὶ ἐλπὶς οὔποτε λήγει. ἤεισα ἄνδρα πολύτροπον, ὃς πολλὰ πλάγχθη, οἶκον ποθῶν καὶ νόστον, ἑταίρους, παῖδα, γυναῖκα· καὶ νῦν ὑμεῖς, ὦ φίλοι, κατὰ γαῖαν ὁδεύετε πάντες, ἕκαστος δ’ Ἰθάκην τινὰ κεύθει ἐνὶ φρεσὶν αὐτοῦ. Μὴ μόνον ἥρωας ζητεῖτε ἐν ἔγχεσι λαμπροῖς· ἥρως καὶ κεῖνος ὃς πίπτει καὶ αὖτις ἀνίσταται, ὃς διὰ νύκτα βαθεῖαν ὁδὸν πρὸς φάος ἐρευνᾷ, καὶ φίλων μνήμην φυλάσσει ὅτε πάντες ἀπῆλθον. Εἰ δέ με νῦν ἐρωτᾶτε τί μένει ἐκ τῶν ἐμῶν ὕμνων, οὔτε Τροίη μόνον, οὔτ’ Ὀδυσῆος ἀγῶνες· ἀλλὰ τὸ ἀνθρώπινον — νόστος, ἀπώλεια, θάρσος, καὶ καρδίη ἣ πάντοτε πρὸς τὸν οἶκον ὁδεύει. Muse, sing to me again; a wider world now hears, Yet still mankind must cross an endless sea of years. The ships have changed, the roads beneath our wandering feet, But love and fear and hope are foes we always meet. I sang the man of many turns, long driven far from home, Who yearned for wife and child through every wave and foam. And you, my friends, still journey underneath the selfsame sky; Within each heart an Ithaca is waiting quietly. Seek heroes not alone where shining weapons ring; A hero too is one who falls, then rises suffering, Who through the deepest night still searches for the dawn, And guards the names of friends when all the rest are gone. And should you ask me now what lives when songs grow old, It is not Troy alone, nor all Odysseus told. It is the human thing — return, loss, hope, and strife, And that persistent heart that journeys home through life.