Homer, Iliad, 1.1-32

Because I'm mad enough to have spent the last two-and-some hours doing this for my own entertainment.

---

A goddess sings wrath, and I,
I sing Achilles' baneful wrath
son of Peleus!
Drawing up in battle-order
for the Achaeans infinite grief
many his wrath dispatched
- strong souls of heroes -
untimely down to Hades
and made them spoils
for dogs, and every carrion bird.
So it was accomplished,
Zeus' will,
from where first - only the beginning! -
striving in rivalry, they stood
one against the other,
the son of Atreus lord of men
and godlike Achilleus.
Who then of the gods
brought them in battle-strife
contending for mastery?
Leto's son, and Zeus':
for he - made wrathful by the king -
he called forth awful sickness
among the host. Men died
because Atreus' son had done
dishonour unto Chryses, priest.
For Chryses came to fleet Achaean ships
seeking freedom for his daughter
bearing ransom beyond price,
with wreaths on the gold staff
of Apollo far-striker
that he held in his hand.
All the Achaeans he beseeched,
most of all both sons of Atreus
leaders of men:
"Sons of Atreus, and other well-girt Greeks!
To you the gods who dwell on Olympus
may grant the utter destruction of Priam's city
and fortunate return to your homes:
should you release my dear daughter
to receive in exchange the ransom,
being reverent of Zeus' son,
Apollo far-darter."

At that, all other Achaeans acclaimed
their agreement, respectful of priest
receptive of bright-gleaming ransom:
but it did not please the soul
of Atreus' son, Agamemnon.
Ignobly he gave vent,
cruel speech he accomplished:
"Old man! Let me not find you
among our hollow ships,
nor tarrying even now,
nor later returning!
Mark you! The god's wreath
and staff will not defend you now!
I will not release her.
Not before her old age.
In our home in Argos
- far from fatherland -
she'll go round the loom-rod,
and come to my bed.
Go! Don't rouse me to rage -
you'd go away again more safely."

---

Creative Commons copyright.

Homer, Iliad, 1.33-52

I am most certainly mad.

---

This he avowed. Afraid, the old man obeyed his speech,
silently departed along the dunes of the loud-roaring sea,
and when he'd gone far off, venerable age prayed
to Lord Apollo, who lovely-haired Leto bore.
"Give ear to me, O silver-bowed, you who have warded away harm from Chryses
and Killa, sacred Tenedos too, you who are mighty-ruling Sminthian lord!
If ever gracefully I crowned for you your holy dwelling
if ever I burned for you fat-rich shanks
of bulls and of wild goats, fulfill my longing!
Let the Danaans atone for my tears in your swift death-dealing darts."

This he avowed, praying. To him radiant Apollo attended,
down he went from Olympus' peak angry at heart
bow borne on his shoulders with his close-covered quiver:
arrows clashed - yes - on his wrathful shoulder
stirred up, he came - and seemed like night.
Then he crouched, far off from the ships; let fly an arrow:
- baleful the scream birthed by bright bow -
first to mules he dealt death, next swift-footed hounds,
then sending piercing shafts into the men, he cast them down:
corpse-pyres were ever kindled in crowds.

---

I know, it's not good poetry, and in order to be even remotely poetic I'm taking a few liberties. But it's good practice.

Happy Longest Night.