The Man Who Acts The Least, Upbraids

But You, Achilles,/ There Is Not A Man In The World More Blest Than You--/ There Never Has Been, Never Will Be One./ Time Was, When You Were Alive, We Argives/ Honored You As A God, And Now Down Here, I See/ You Lord It Over The Dead In All Your Power./ So Grieve No More At Dying, Great Achilles.’ I Reassured The Ghost, But He Broke Out Protesting,/ ‘no Winning Words About Death To Me, Shining Odysseus!/ By God, I’d Rather Slave On Earth For Another Man--/ Some Dirt-poor Tenant Farmer Who Scrapes To Keep Alive—than Rule Down Here Over All The Breathless Dead.

I Detest The Man Who Hides On Thing In The Depths Of His Heart And Speaks Forth Another.

Who Ne'er Knew Salt, Or Heard The Billows Roar.

And Rest At Last Where Souls Unbodied Dwell, In Ever-flowing Meads Of Asphodel.

Nor Can One Word Be Chang'd But For A Worse.