Fighters Reward
Wounded barbarian none gainsay is brave,
Enemies harrying him to his grave,
Trench filled with valiant comrades, struck
And split by the axes, or arrows that stuck.
Orgies have slated and wasted his brain:
Wenches and wine left a mid-morning pain
Dulling his eyes as he slashes and swings,
While straight for his body a javelin zings.
Slowly his sword-arm is losing its strength;
Whistling arrows are leaping the length
Spanning the distance from bow-string to chest,
Encircling his breast like a feather-barbed vest.
Sagging to sand in a pool of rich red,
Shutting his eyes, he imagines instead
Maidens besprawled on a silken divan…
Valhalla entices the soul of this man…
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