Eleven years after the fall of Troy,
We, the old men—some of us nearly forty—
Met and talked on the sunny rampart
Over our wine, while the lizards scuttled
In dusty grass, and the crickets chirred.
Some bared their wounds;
Some spoke of the thirst, dry in the throat,
And the heart-beat, in the din of battle;
Some spoke of intolerable sufferings,
The brightness gone from their eyes
And the grey already thick in their hair.
And I sat a little apart
From the garrulous talk and old memories,
And I heard a boy of twenty
Say petulantly to a girl, seizing her arm:
“Oh, come away, why do you stand there
Listening open-mouthed to the talk of old men?
Haven’t you heard enough of Troy and Achilles?
Why should they bore us for ever
With an old quarrel and the names of dead men
We never knew, and dull forgotten battles?”
And he drew her away,
And she looked back and laughed
As he spoke more contempt of us,
Being now out of hearing.
And I thought of the graves by desolate Troy
And the beauty of many young men now dust,
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And the long agony, and how useless it all was. And the talk still clashed about me Like the meeting of blade and blade. And as they two moved further away He put an arm about her, and kissed her; And afterwards I heard their gay distant laughter. And I looked at the hollow cheeks And the weary eyes and the grey-streaked heads Of the old men—nearly forty—about me; And I too walked away In an agony of helpless grief and pity.THE END