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He had no neighbor but himself, he could not walk,
and none was near to share in his suffering
or listen when he would lament of his cruel, devouring pain,
or soothe the burning-hot blood that would ooze from the wound
695in his poisonous foot, or gather
soft herbs from the fruitful earth, whenever
the agony would fall upon him.
He crept from place to place
and crawled with slowly painful steps
700(just like a child who has lost his nurse)
wherever he might hope to find
the means to live when the pain died down.
The women of Trachis and Philoctetes. A new translation in verse by Robert Torrance. Houghton Mifflin. 1966.
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