Classic Poem

I looked on those who are dead and were proud:
Content with blood, in what contempt of breath
By the encherubed stairs, under painted cloud,
Some paced on rose reflections to the death!

But most I think in pride upon those Anthonies:
The Roman, stalked by thirst, who for his gilt
Helmet shouted and, admired by armies, drank stale piss
With carelessness, as though an empire spilt.

Or on that African, another Anthony,
Exalted by the desert, who sat and would not nod
For fear lest dreams should bring worse visions. He
Could stiffen his neck to every thought but God.