^{translated from the ancient Greek by Emily Wilson}

But, Menelaus, you 
were not forgotten by the deathless gods. 
Athena first, the one who hunts for spoils, 
the child of Zeus, stood right in front of you, 
protecting you against the piercing arrow. 
She brushed it from his skin—as light a gesture 
as when a mother strokes away a fly 
to keep it from her baby, sweetly sleeping. 
She steered the arrow to the golden buckles 
clasping his belt together, where his corselet 
was folded double so its sharpened point 
alighted on the fitted belt and drove 
right through its ornate workmanship, and pushed 
on through the decorations of his corselet 
and through the band he wore against his skin, 
his last protection from sharp-pointed darts. 
Even through this it made its way, and grazed 
just through the outmost layer of his skin. 
At once the wound gushed blood as black as clouds, 
as when a woman from Maeonia 
or Caria stains ivory with purple 
to make a horse’s cheekpiece, which is stored 
inside an inner chamber, and great numbers 
of charioteers are longing to possess it, 
but it is saved as treasure for a king, 
a beautiful decoration for the horse, 
and glory for the driver—Menelaus, 
so were your handsome thighs all stained with blood, 
so were your handsome calves and shapely ankles.