Myth Happens

Εἲς Ἑστίαν

ἑστίη, ἣ πάντων ἐν δώμασιν ὑψηλοῖσιν
ἀθανάτων τε θεῶν χαμαὶ ἐρχομένων τ᾽ ἀνθρώπων
ἕδρην ἀίδιον ἔλαχες, πρεσβηίδα τιμήν,
καλὸν ἔχουσα γέρας καὶ τίμιον: οὐ γὰρ ἄτερ σοῦ
εἰλαπίναι θνητοῖσιν, ἵν᾽ οὐ πρώτῃ πυμάτῃ τε
Ἑστίῃ ἀρχόμενος σπένδει μελιηδέα οἶνον:
καὶ σύ μοι, Ἀργειφόντα, Διὸς καὶ Μαιάδος υἱέ,
ἄγγελε τῶν μακάρων, χρυσόρραπι, δῶτορ ἐάων,
ἵλαος ὢν ἐπάρηγε σὺν αἰδοίῃ τε φίλῃ τε.
ναίετε δώματα καλά, φίλα φρεσὶν ἀλλήλοισιν
εἰδότες: ἀμφότεροι γὰρ ἐπιχθονίων ἀνθρώπων
εἰδότες ἔργματα καλὰ νόῳ θ᾽ ἕσπεσθε καὶ ἥβῃ.
χαῖρε, Κρόνου θύγατερ, σύ τε καὶ χρυσόρραπις Ἑρμῆς:
αὐτὰρ ἐγὼν ὑμέων τε καὶ ἄλλης μνήσομ᾽ ἀοιδῆς.

To Hestia

Hestia, who in all the high homes
of immortal gods and mortals who walk the earth,
won the right of a seat forever, the highest honor,
you have a beautiful gift of honor and privilege: for without you
mortals hold no feasts, where whoever begins
for Hestia pours out honey-sweet wine first and last.
And you, slayer of Argos, son of Zeus and Maia,
messenger of the blessed, with your golden wand the giver of good things,
look favorably on me and aid me with her, revered and loved.
You dwell in beautiful homes, dear to one another's thoughts,
both of you knowing the beautiful deeds of people who live on the earth
and following them in mind and youth.
Hail, Kronos' daughter, and you Hermes with your golden wand,
but I will remember myself both you and another song.

She's curled up asleep on my left shoulder. Her brother was purring a storm across my wrists, having learned to stay off the keyboard in only the most technical terms, but he just conked out, too. The runt really wasn't a Hermes; I'll have to translate something else for him. ἄλλη ἀοιδή.

[edit] He woke while I was posting—I needed more range of movement to work a touchpad than to type—and moved up to my right shoulder. I feel like a miracle play.