I ran across a poem the other day by WB Yeats.
Now every Irish person knows a few poems by Yeats as they were beaten into us at school.
This poem wasn't on the syllabus so here it is:
An Irish Airman Foresees his Death
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death
The poor feller. He knows his time is short. He's probably young and fit and he's probably lost a few mates already. He knows he'll go without any fanfare yet he's still going to do his duty. Maybe just maybe the next time you're on the cusp of whinging about something minor, spare a though for this feller.