The Oral Tradition

For bearded pre-Mycenaean warriors
Who had nothing to do with Troy, —
For death-sleep faces caked in gold
At which Achilles, in his day, turned up his nose,
The true prize was not the booty
To haul away in creaking ships, —it was
The wind-bent grass of the endless steppes
The fathers of their fathers knew,
The horses with quick-silvery manes and flying feet
And snatches of poetry in their ears.