Tragedy comes for poets greatly high:
Under the Trojan walls the heroes clash –
The spear-point enters with a deadly gash
Into the place beside the naked thigh,
Or the head rolls; with just a moment’s cry
The warrior falls, and all his weapons crash
In solemn sound. It’s over in a flash;
As in the movies, it’s so neat to die.
Heroic death; there’s nothing like it, here:
Here on a battlefield, a mangling wound
Will leave the victim gasping out his breath
For minutes or for hours. A month, a year
Or six for sordid illness. Thus I found
No grandeur in your slow and natural death.