Even The Bravest Cannot Fight Beyond His

Clanless, Lawless, Homeless Is He Who Is In Love With Civil War, That Brutal Ferocious Thing.

Now From His Breast Into The Eyes The Ache Of Longing Mounted, And He Wept At Last, His Dear Wife, Clear And Faithful, In His Arms, Longed For As The Sunwarmed Earth Is Longed For By A Swimmer Spent In Rough Water Where His Ship Went Down Under Poseidon's Blows, Gale Winds And Tons Of Sea. Few Men Can Keep Alive Through A Big Serf To Crawl, Clotted With Brine, On Kindly Beaches In Joy, In Joy, Knowing The Abyss Behind: And So She Too Rejoiced, Her Gaze Upon Her Husband, Her White Arms Round Him Pressed As Though Forever.

…but There They Lay, Sprawled Across The Field, Craved Far More By The Vultures Than By Wives.

Of Men Who Have A Sense Of Honor, More Come Through Alive Than Are Slain, But From Those Who Flee Comes Neither Glory Nor Any Help.

For Too Much Rest Becomes A Pain.