
Two days pinned down, then Dawn
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ἔνθα δύω νύκτας δύο τʼ ἤματα συνεχὲς αἰεὶ κείμεθʼ, ὁμοῦ καμάτῳ τε καὶ ἄλγεσι θυμὸν ἔδοντες. ἀλλʼ ὅτε δὴ τρίτον ἦμαρ ἐυπλόκαμος τέλεσʼ Ἠώς, ἱστοὺς στησάμενοι ἀνά θʼ ἱστία λεύκʼ ἐρύσαντες ἥμεθα, τὰς δʼ ἄνεμός τε κυβερνῆταί τʼ ἴθυνον.
There, for two nights and two days on end without a break, we lay, eating our heart at once with weariness and with pains. But when at last fair-tressed Dawn brought the third day, we set up the masts, and hauled up the white sails, and sat; and the wind and the helmsmen kept them on course.
Driven back and battered, the fleet is pinned on shore for two days while the crew lies helpless, until the third dawn lets them rig the ships and make sail again.
Two days of nothing, then the routine of getting under way. The men lie on the beach 'eating their heart' with exhaustion and grief; when the third dawn comes they step the masts, haul the white sails, and let wind and steersmen carry the ships. The passage swings from paralysis to competent motion in a single line.
The turn is marked by a formula. ἐυπλόκαμος Ἠώς — 'fair-tressed Dawn' — arrives with her fixed pretty epithet over a crew that has just spent two days in misery, and the serene phrase lifts them out of it. The gap between the calm formula and the men's state is exactly the point: Dawn does not care, and yet Dawn is what ends the ordeal. Homer's own image, 'eating the heart,' is the ache the epithet passes over.
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