War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.
Love, why have you sought the horde of spearsmen, why the tent Achilles pitched beside the river-ford?
War wreaked on you his hideous ravishment; We, we alone, Nereids inviolate, Remain to weep, with the sea-birds to chant: Corinth is lost, Corinth is desolate.
Why wait for Death to mow? why wait for Death to sow us in the ground?
Lift up our eyes to you? no, God, we stare and stare, upon a nearer thing that greets us here, Death, violent and near.
I myself have seen the floating ships And nothing will ever be the same The shouts, The harrowing voices within the house. I stand apart with an army: My mind is graven with ships.
The Greeks have snatched up their spears. They have pointed the helms of their ships Toward the bulwarks of Troy.
When the shingles hissed in the rain incendiary, other values were revealed to us
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