HELEN AT THE LOOM

Helen, in her silent room,

Weaves upon the upright loom;

Weaves a mantle rich and dark,

Purpled over, deep. But mark

How she scatters o'er the wool

Woven shapes, till it is full

Of men that struggle close, complex;

Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks

Arching high; spear, shield, and all

The panoply that doth recall

Mighty war; such war as e'en

For Helen's sake is waged, I ween.

Purple is the groundwork: good!

All the field is stained with blood —

Blood poured out for Helen's sake;

( Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake! )

But the shapes of men that pass

Are as ghosts within a glass,

Woven with whiteness of the swan,

Pale, sad memories, gleaming wan

From the garment's purple fold

Where Troy's tale is twined and told.

Well may Helen, as with tender

Touch of rosy fingers slender

She doth knit the story in

Of Troy's sorrow and her sin,

Feel sharp filaments of pain

Reeled off with the well-spun skein,

And faint blood-stains on her hands

From the shifting, sanguine strands.

Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow:

What has been must be to-morrow;

Meekly to her fate she bows.

Heavenly beauties still will rouse

Strife and savagery in men:

Shall the lucid heavens, then,

Lose their high serenity,

Sorrowing over what must be?

If she taketh to her shame,

Lo, they give her not the blame,—

Priam's wisest counselors,

Aged men, not loving wars.

When she goes forth, clad in white,

Day-cloud touched by first moonlight,

With her fair hair, amber-hued

As vapor by the moon imbued

With burning brown, that round her clings,

See, she sudden silence brings

On the gloomy whisperers

Who would make the wrong all hers.

So, Helen, in thy silent room,

Labor at the storied loom;

( Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake! )

Let thy aching sorrow make

Something strangely beautiful

Of this fabric; since the wool

Comes so tinted from the Fates,

Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates.

Thou shalt work with subtle force

All thy deep shade of remorse

In the texture of the weft,

That no stain on thee be left;—

Ay, false queen, shalt fashion grief,

Grief and wrong, to soft relief.

Speed the garment! It may chance,

Long hereafter, meet the glance,

Of Oenone; when her lord,

Now thy Paris, shall go tow'rd

Ida, at his last sad end,

Seeking her, his early friend,

Who alone can cure his ill,

Of all who love him, if she will.

It were fitting she should see

In that hour thine artistry,

And her husband's speechless corse

In the garment of remorse!

But take heed that in thy work

Naught unbeautiful may lurk.

Ah, how little signifies

Unto thee what fortunes rise,

What others fall! Thou still shall rule,

Still shalt twirl the colored spool.

Though thy yearning woman's eyes

Burn with glorious agonies,

Pitying the waste and woe,

And the heroes falling low

In the war around thee, here,

Yet the least, quick-trembling tear

‘ Twixt thy lids shall dearer be

Than life, to friend or enemy.

There are people on the earth

Doomed with doom of too great worth.

Look on Helen not with hate,

Therefore, but compassionate.

If she suffer not too much,

Seldom does she feel the touch

Of that fresh, auroral joy

Lighter spirits may decoy

To their pure and sunny lives.

Heavy honey‘ tis she hives.

To her sweet but burdened soul

All that here she may control —

What of bitter memories,

What of coming fate's surmise,

Paris’ passion, distant din

Of the war now drifting in

To her quiet — idle seems;

Idle as the lazy gleams

Of some stilly water's reach,

Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleach

A heavy arch; and, looking through,

Far away the doubtful blue

Glimmers, on a drowsy day,

Crowded with the sun's rich gray;—

As she stands within her room,

Weaving, weaving at the loom.