Thom Gunn dixit

The huge wound in my head began to heal
About the beginning of the seventh week.
Its valleys darkened; its villages became still:
For joy I did not move and dare not to speak,
Not doctors would cure it, but time, its pacient skill.

And constantly my mind returned to Troy.
After I sailed the seas I fought in turn
On both sides, sharing even Helen's joy
Of place - and growing up - to see Troy burn
As Neoptolemus, that stubborn boy.

I lay and rested as prescription said.
Manoeuvred with the Greeks, or sallied out
Each day with Hector. Finally, my bed
Became Achilles' tent, to which the lout
Thersites came reporting numbers dead.

I was myself: subject to no man's breath:
My own commander was my enemy.
And while my belt hung up, sword in the sheath,
Thersites shambled in and breathlessly
Cackled about my friend Patroclus' death.

I called for armour, rose, and did not reel.
But, when I thought, rage at his noble pain
Flew to my head, and turning I could feel
My wound break open wide. Over again
I had to led those storm-lit valleys heel.

Thom Gunn, "The Wound", Cambridge Book of English Verse 1939-1975.