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Robert Laurence Binyon - Penthesilea
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 Where all was doubt. Penthesilea burned
 Amid the scattered mellay; surely now
 From Simois through the dust and disarray
 She spied a great crest and a blazing spear
 Returning, and Harmothoe cried out,
 ``Penthesilea!`` with so keen a cry
 That her heart leapt; she knew Achilles came.

 All knew, the spent arms and the shouting heads
 Were stayed and turned; they halted man by man
 As knowing the hour was other than their own,
 Awaiting in a thrilled expectancy,
 As a drawn bowstring ere the arrow fly,
 That strange encounter, not alone the shock
 Of chosen champions, but a storm of worlds
 Where the deep blood--tides, man and woman, met
 Penthesilea kindled, her soul soared
 Above the beating of her heart, alone
 Answering that high peril, that made pale
 The boldest round her, all their fluttered hope
 Afraid, as with a deep imperious cry
 And striding pace, through moil of crimsoned arms,
 Dinted and shattered shields, Achilles came
 Shining from head to heel; a demigod
 Whom smouldering anger dyed in fire, whose limbs
 For swiftness and for strength unmatchable
 Seemed but the prison of a spirit that, freed
 As a flame leaps in beauty to and fro,
 Splendid in indignation should have towered
 Against the lords of heaven; a spirit wronged,
 That for oblivion of its sore heart--strings
 Had robed itself so red in slaughterous deeds
 And as in scorn feasted on dying cries,
 Hot like a reveller seeking to forget;
 But as a reveller comes out into dawn
 Shooting bright beams up to the fading stars,
 So was it with Achilles when he found
 The royal Amazon; in ardour she
 Leaned on her reined horse forward, all her soul
 Ingathered at a breath, ready to launch
 And dare, as those together--leaping looks
 Like stone and steel flashed! To the fingers tense,
 She poised in one uplifted hand her spear
 Against him over challenging proud eyes,
 That quailed not where the eyes of kings had quailed.

 ``Turn again home! Thou canst not fight with men,
 And least with me, whom no man overcomes,``
 Scornfully with a mighty voice he cried,
 ``Madwoman, turn, or here thou spill`st thy soul!``
 Clear rang her voice back, ``Put me to the proof!
 Have I not sought thee, Achilles, all this day,
 And having found thee, shall I let thee go?``
 With that she hurled, and the spear bounded forth
 Straight at Achilles` face, but lifting up
 His shield, he caught it on the golden boss
 That shivered it to pieces: his own spear
 Flew on the instant, the shock marred his aim,
 And not the queen he smote, but smote her horse
 Deep in the shoulder: with sharp shriek he reared
 And staggering fell; but lightly ere he fell
 Penthesilea leapt upon the ground,
 As swiftly Achilles plucked his weapon back.
 Pale grew the Trojans, glad the Greeks exclaimed,
 But she stood, deeply breathing, and her mind
 Debated if to draw her sword and rush
 On death at once; while marvelling to behold
 The beauty of the daring on her brow
 Achilles called, ``Thou tameless one, be tamed!
 Else thou art dead, no god shall save thee now.``
 She answered, ``Nay, thou shalt not think such scorn
 Of me that am a woman. Men are bold,
 All men are bold, and women are all weak,
 Thou think`st, yet when a woman`s heart is bold,
 By so much more it can outmatch a man`s
 As all her strength is in extremity,
 Sped like a shaft that stops but in a wound!
 Though but a woman, thou hast cause to fear
 And fear me most, because I stand alone.``
 She called undaunted, yet her heart despaired;
 When quickly came Harmothoe and thrust
 A second javelin in her hand; at which
 Achilles frowned: ``Bold art thou, overbold;
 And surely as high Zeus on Ida sits
 And watches now, I swear none braver moves
 In this day`s battle, nay, alone of all
 Worthy my strife. Be wise, venture not more.``
 He spoke, reluctant. But without a word
 She, moving in his path until she backed
 The low sun where he faced it full, upraised
 The spear, and cast at him with all her force.
 Then taken half at unawares, he swerved.
 On the left shoulder, near the neck, above
 The great shield`s rim it smote and grazed the flesh,
 So that the blood sprang: like winged Victory
 The Amazon flushed bright, a hundred throats
 Broke into one loud cry, and the Greeks clutched
 Their swords, as that exulting murmur ran
 Trembling and echoing o`er the plain to Troy.
 There was such pause as when the ear waits thunder.
 Achilles` face was dark, yet lightning--lit;
 And all the ruthless eagle in his soul
 Called instant for her death; yet she was fair,
 Young, and a woman, and surpassing fair;
 But she had shamed him: as an eagle beats
 Towering against the mastery of a storm
 That blows him o`er a tossed lake backward, then
 Upon a lull swoops forward, so his wrath
 Leapt conquering on a sudden, and the spear
 Flamed from his hurling hand; she saw it come,
 She raised her shield, but through the shield it crashed
 Under the arm, through the tough panther--skin
 And plates of iron; in her side it pierced
 And bore her down; imperially she fell
 Without a cry, sank on lost feet, nor heard
 Achilles` dread voice, ``Art thou satisfied,
 Penthesilea?`` but the heavy shield
 Rang on her fallen, the helmet rolled in dust
 From her proud head, and the long, loosened hair
 Tossed one tress richly over throat and bosom
 Shuddering strongly up from where the blood
 Welled dark about the spear forced deep within;
 And sudden as a torch plunged in a pool
 Her face lay dead--pale with the eyes quite closed.

 Some moments held, still as deep snow is still,
 The hearts of either watching throng, for whom
 There seemed a glory fallen from the world
 Where she lay fallen, stirred not: spear and shield
 Were silent; then among the Danaans woke
 A cruel exultation as they saw
 The Trojan faces; and one cast a spear
 At random; harsh the shouts of battle rose.

 But still Achilles stood where he had hurled,
 Filled with besieging thoughts that in his brain
 Like thunder broke: he heard the cry and clang
 Renewing, and faced back upon his Greeks,
 Staying them sternly: wrath was in his soul,
 Wrath with those spirits despised, and wrath with her
 That had provoked him, wrath that his right hand
 Abhorred its own act, and deep wrath with heaven
 And fate; so darkened inly, like a storm
 He came, and standing o`er the fallen queen
 Gazed on the shape his wound had marred, a shape
 Where strength had into beauty thewed and strung
 Thighs of swift purpose, deep bosom and loins
 Largely imagined, a God`s dream; such limbs
 As in the forges of desire should mould
 Heroes oh never now to be! So pale
 She lay, a life that might have with him soared
 Abreast, but all its world of hope a cup
 Quite spilled, a splendour ravelled and undone
 By his own hand who now, so darkly stirred,
 Saw her eyes open on him, full and strange.

 Imperiously, ``O thou shalt live!`` he cried;
 Flung his shield off, with a fierce tenderness
 Bending beside her to uplift the weight
 Of her resigning shoulder on his arm.
 But faint she moaned, ``I thirst.`` Then at his call
 One ran to where a stream welled near a bush
 Hard by; but quicker ran Harmothoe
 And brought her helmet brimming, which the queen
 Drank of a little, though the bubbling cold
 Of her own mountain springs hardly had eased
 The growing anguish of the wound; when now
 Among the Greeks murmur and strife arose,
 Where loud among the rest Thersites mocked.
 ``See, lords of Hellas, see this prince you fame
 So high beyond us all, and fawn upon
 His all--contemptuous pride, shows his true heart.
 A fondler of soft women would he be,
 A Paris! Kills, and weeps on those he kills.
 We should have left him in his proper robes
 On Scyros, hollow braggart that he is.
 What is this woman she should baulk our fray?
 Let kites and dogs stay over her, not we.``
 But ere he ceased Achilles sprang on him,
 Flaming. ``Thou toad!`` he cried, and in an instant
 Seized with both furious hands and lifted him,
 Towering and terrible, above his head,
 And as a lion flings a snarling hound,
 Tossed him afar to fall with gnashing noise
 Horribly biting the blood--spattered earth.
 ``Spit thy slime there, thou shalt not on a thing
 Less vile than thine own soul!`` Achilles cried.
 And all the rest, half wroth, half shamed before
 The domination of his burning eyes,
 Fell backward. ``To the trench and to your huts!``
 He called again. ``Go, for the night comes on.
 You fight to--day no more!`` He shouted stern;
 And one to another whispered in his fear,
 ``The Gods have sent a madness on this man.
 Stir not his fury.`` So they all retired,
 And on their side slowly the men of Troy
 Drew homeward: but alone Achilles came
 Back to the Amazon, propped on the knees
 Of sad Harmothoe, and darkling stood
 Over her, where she cast her eyes around
 And knew the earth and heaven but saw them strange;
 Saw the stilled armies and far towers, and light
 Upon the great clouds drooping sanguine plumes
 On Ida from the zenith over Troy,
 Where wept Andromache; brief evening burned
 One solemn colour o`er a world at pause:
 Last she beheld Achilles: in their eyes
 Meeting, the marvel of what might have been
 Was with that moment married, as a touch
 On thrilling strings wakes from the eternal void
 Beauty unending, but the excluded heart
 Heaves mutinous in pangs at the dear cost
 And pity to be mortal: pangs more keen
 Pierced now Achilles gazing, and in smart
 He cried, ``Thou smilest!`` for her countenance changed,
 Eased out of anguish under falling calm,
 A lightening and release. Now not on him
 Her dying eyes looked, not on him who stood
 Meshed in the wrath of his own fiery deeds,
 Passionate, yet transfixed, as if the power
 Of some Immortal had made vain his might
 And helpless his victorious hands; her head
 Sank, and her liberated spirit, where
 He might not follow, was already flown.
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