by Benedict Bergeron ’29 on March 19, 2026
Portfolio - Poetry
There he lay upon the field
With shivered spear and broken shield
And armor punctured o’er his heart,
Punctured by a well placed dart.
Glamorous life, he lived it well
With wine-dark drink and revel unquelled,
And fame he won with war-worn hands,
Leading his troops across the lands.
Yes, it would approach one day:
That doom what steals his breath away.
He lay there then with that in mind:
Fate had dealt him death in kind.
But not with grudges did he die,
No tint of vengeance bleared his eye,
Nor lack of wealth to draw forth tears,
Neither sloth to shame him ‘mongst his peers.
For one lone virtue he did want
Which neither saints nor sinners vaunt.
From the blood-soaked ground to the blue above,
He said, “I wish that I had loved.”
There he lay upon the field
With shivered spear and broken shield.
From the blood-soaked ground to the azure sky,
He spoke a prayer and then did die.