You fell just as a smooth-barked poplar would.
The spear from Ajax struck you in the chest.
Anthemion’s brave son — he loved you best,
As did your mother. On that field you stood,
A young man, yet unmarried, strong and good;
In armour brightly shining you were dressed.
But no cuirass would shield your noble breast,
For from the arm of Ajax nothing could.
Born by the river that bequeathed your name;
Upon a water meadow you were laid.
Then raised to be your parent’s pride and joy,
Though never would their kindness be repaid.
In bloom of youth, up to the front you came,
To fall and rot upon the plain of Troy.
— D.N. O’Brien