But Daedalus was weary; by this time,

he’d been exiled in Crete too long; he pined

for his own land; but he was blocked – the sea

stood in his way. “Though Minos bars escape

by land or waves,” he said, “I still can take

the sky – there lies my path. Though he owns all,

he does not own the air!” At once he starts

to work on unknown arts, to alter nature.

He lays out feathers – all in order, first

the shorter, then the longer (you’d have said

they’d grown along a slope); just like the kind

of pipes that country people used to fashion,

where from unequal reed to reed the rise

is gradual. And these he held together

with twine around the center; at the base

he fastened them with wax; and thus arranged –

he’d bent them slightly – they could imitate

the wings of true birds.

As he worked at this,

his young son, Icarus, inquisitive,

stood by and – unaware that what he did

involved a thing that would imperil him –

delighted, grabbed the feathers that the wind

tossed, fluttering, about; or he would ply

the blond wax with his thumb; and as he played,

the boy disturbed his father’s wonder-work.

When Daedalus had given the last touch,

the craftsman thought he’d try two wings himself;

so balanced, as he beat the wings, he hung

poised in the air. And then to his dear son,

he gave another pair. “O Icarus,”

he said, “I warn you: fly a middle course.

If you’re too low, sea spray may damp your wings;

and if you fly too high, the heat is scorching.

Keep to the middle then. And keep your eyes

on me and not on Helice, Bootes,

or on Orion’s unsheathed sword. Where I

shall lead – that’s where you fly: I’ll be your guide.”

And as he taught his son the rules of flight,

He fitted to the shoulders of the boy

those wings that none had ever seen before.

The old man worked and warmed; his cheeks grew damp

with tears; and with a father’s fears, his hands

began to tremble. Then he kissed his son

(he never would embrace the boy again);

and poised upon his wings, he flew ahead,

still anxious for the follower he led

(much like the bird who, from her nest on high

leads out her tender fledglings to the sky).

He urges on his son, saying he must

keep up, not fall behind; so he instructs

the boy in flight, an art most dangerous;

and while the father beats his wings, he turns

to watch his son, to see what he has done.

A fisherman, who with his pliant rod

was angling there below, caught sight of them;

and then a shepherd leaning on his staff

and, too, a peasant leaning on his plow

saw them and were dismayed: they thought that these

must surely be some gods, sky-voyaging.

Now on their left they had already passed

the isle of Samos – Juno’s favorite –

Delos and Paros, and Calymne, rich

in honey, and Labinthos, on the right.

The boy had now begun to take delight

in his audacity; he left his guide

and, fascinated by the open sky,

flew higher; and the scorching sun was close;

the fragrant wax that bound his wings grew soft,

then melted. As he beats upon the air,

his arms can get no grip; they’re wingless – bare.

The father – though the word is hollow now –

cried: “Icarus! Where are you?” And that cry

echoed again, again till he caught sight

of feathers on the surface of the sea.

And Daedalus cursed his own artistry,

then built a tomb to house his dear son’s body.

There, where the boy was buried, now his name

remains: that island is Icaria.

– Ovid, Metamorphoses,

Book 8, translated by Allen Mandelbaum

When Daedalus – for so the tale is told –

fled Minos’ kingdom on swift wings and dared

to trust his body to the sky, be floated

along strange ways, up toward the frozen North,

until he gently came to rest upon

the mountaintop of Chalcis. Here he was

returned to earth, and here he dedicated

his oar-like wings to you, Apollo; here

he built a splendid temple in your honor.

Upon the gates he carved Androgeos’ death,

and then the men of Athens, made to pay

each year with seven bodies of their sons;

before them stands the urn, the lots are drawn.

And facing this, he set another scene:

the land of Crete, rising out of the sea;

the inhuman longing of Pasiphaë,

the lust that made her mate the bull by craft;

her mongrel son, the two-formed Minotaur,

a monument to her polluted passion.

And here the inextricable labyrinth,

the house of toil was carved, but Daedalus

took pity on the princess Ariadne’s

deep love, and he himself helped disentangle

the wiles and mazes of the palace, with

a thread he guided Theseus’ blinded footsteps.

And Icarus, you also would have played

great part in such work, had his grief allowed;

twice he had tried to carve your trials in gold,

and twice a father’s hand had failed.

– Virgil, The Aeneid,

Book 6, translated by Allen Mandelbaum