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Life, 'tis said, to all men sweet is,
 Death to all must bitter be;
Wherefore thus, oh, mother Thetis?
 None can baffle Jove's decree;
I am ready, I am willing,
 To resign my stormy life;
Weary of this long blood-spilling,
 Sated with this ceaseless strife.

Shorter doom I've pictured dimly,
 On a bed of crimson sand;
Fighting hard and dying grimly,
 Silent lips, and striking hand;
But the toughest lives are brittle,
 And the bravest and the best
Lightly fall—it matters little;
 Now, I only long for rest.

I have seen enough of slaughter,
 Seen Scamander's torrent red,
Seen hot blood poured out like water,
 Seen the champaign heap'd with dead.
Men will call me unrelenting,
 Pitiless, vindictive, stern;
Few will raise a voice dissenting,
 Few will better things discern.