Classic Poem

There is nothing for me, Poetry, who was the child of joy,
But to work out in verse crazes of my untold pain;
In verse which shall recall the rightness of a former day.

And of Beauty, that has command of many gods, in vain
Have I written, imploring your help, who have let destroy
A servant of yours, by evil men birth better at once had slain.

And for my country, God knows my heart, land, men to me
Were dear there, I was friend also of every look of sun or rain;
It has betrayed as evil women wantonly a man their toy.

Soldiers' praise I had earned having suffered soldier's pain,
And the great honour of song in the battle's first grey show—
Honour was bound to me save, mine most dreadfully stain.

Rapt heart, once, hills I wandered alone, joy was comrade there, though
Little of what I needed was in my power; again—again
Hours I recall, dazed with pain like a still weight set to my woe.

Blood, birth, long remembrance, my County, all these have saven
Little of my being from dreadfullest hurt, the old gods have no
Pity—or long ago I should have got good, they would have battled my high right plain.