… When, in the finely wrought chest,
the blowing wind and the swelling sea
struck her with fear, her cheeks wet
she put her loving arms round Perseus
and said, ‘My child, what trouble is mine.
But you sleep sound, your little heart
at peace as you lie on comfortless
bronze-nailed wood, drowsing in the unlit night,
the black dark. You care nothing
for the deep spray of the swelling sea
above your head, nor the roaring wind,
as you lie there, your pretty face
bright in the crimson shawl.
If this danger were danger to you,
your tiny ear would hear my words.
But as it is, I tell you, sleep,
my baby, and let the sea sleep,
and let our endless suffering sleep …’