The heroic stars spending themselves,
Coining their very flesh into bullets for the lost battle,
They must burn out at length like used candles;
And Mother Night will weep in her triumph, taking home her heroes.
There is the stuff for an epic poem–
This magnificent raid at the heart of darkness, this lost battle–
We don’t know enough, we’ll never know.
Oh happy Homer, taking the stars and the Gods for granted.