On First Looking Into Lattimore's Homer

Keats, himself a five-foot epic, confused
Balboa with Cortez, & bleary eyed
Sat up all night with Chapman shaking
In his palm. War-fermented ships cruised
His mind until Ilion’s walls were pried
Apart & Helen fell into quaking
Arms. He was so young, he could not know
What lay ahead – brother Thomas bleeding
In his longs, & Fanny Brawne to fix
The poems with pins & passion. But how
Shattering that one night was. Keats reading
Homer until he burst aloud. By twenty-six
He would be dead; no wooden horse to save
Him; no gray-eyed goddess to mark his grave.