W. H. Auden’s “The Shield of Achilles”
    She looked over his shoulder
         For vines and olive trees,
     Marble well-governed cities
         And ships upon untamed seas,
    But there on the shining metal
        His hands had put instead
    An artificial wilderness
        And a sky like lead.

A plain without a feature, bare and brown,
     No blade of grass, no sign of neighborhood,
Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down,
     Yet, congregated on its blankness, stood
     An unintelligible multitude,
A million eyes, a million boots in line,
Without expression, waiting for a sign.

Out of the air a voice without a face
     Proved by statistics that some cause was just
In tones as dry and level as the place:
     No one was cheered and nothing was discussed;
     Column by column in a cloud of dust
They marched away enduring a belief
Whose logic brought them, somewhere else, to grief.
    She looked over his shoulder
         For ritual pieties,
     White flower-garlanded heifers,
         Libation and sacrifice,
     But there on the shining metal
         Where the altar should have been,
     She saw by his flickering forge-light
         Quite another scene.

Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot
     Where bored officials lounged (one cracked a joke)
And sentries sweated for the day was hot:
     A crowd of ordinary decent folk
     Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke
As three pale figures were led forth and bound
To three posts driven upright in the ground.

The mass and majesty of this world, all
    That carries weight and always weighs the same
Lay in the hands of others; they were small
    And could not hope for help and no help came:
    What their foes like to do was done, their shame
Was all the worst could wish; they lost their pride
And died as men before their bodies died.

    She looked over his shoulder
         For athletes at their games,
    Men and women in a dance
         Moving their sweet limbs
     Quick, quick, to music,
         But there on the shining shield
     His hands had set no dancing-floor
         But a weed-choked field.
A ragged urchin, aimless and alone,
    Loitered about that vacancy; a bird
Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone:
     That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third,
    Were axioms to him, who'd never heard
Of any world where promises were kept,
Or one could weep because another wept.

    The thin-lipped armorer,
        Hephaestos, hobbled away,
    Thetis of the shining breasts
        Cried out in dismay
    At what the god had wrought
        To please her son, the strong
    Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles
        Who would not live long.