La Comedie Humaine

Lords of men, by the broad-benched ships,
Twisting and turning on the fringed shore,
The wine dark waves, inebriated air,
Pregnant with Juno’s storms. The siren sings
A long, low, dulcimer note, that flies
Dove-like through the air, and perches on their hearts;
Enraptured by the music, they strike each other deep,
Breaking, wounding, torturing their clashing corps:
Blood pours from every cut, leaks onto the ground,
Spills in pools and chokes the thirsty earth:
Ranged together, linked each shield to shield,
And as a bed of nails, each sword to sword
They advance in all their pride and slash and cut and work.