Nor Priam nor his sons obtain\'d their grace;
Proud Troy they hated, and her guilty race.
From the hillock of the lead mines, the cragged
Thumb of land under which the townscape nests,
The night sky glows with the starry campfires
Of the Trojan host. Long flares and streamers
Of light reach out across the ink-dark tide
And stars burn with envy of the land, where
The waywardness of woodfires calls to mind
Old remnants of war, and fear, and triumph.
The sky, doubled, gladdens the shepherd’s heart,
And he beams, lamb tucked in his arm, his face
Streaked with firelight. Across his pasture dance
The shadows of men – then up start the chants:
Full-bodied plainsongs swelling out like smoke,
Marauding dreams of burning ships, wailing
Down the walls of the Achaian camp’s tents.
The stars bleed empty, but the men stay on
And the hours soon make ashes of their cries.
The muddy night carries on the dull roll
Of sounds having lost their shape, lost their way –
And the shepherd, losing faith, turns away.