HELEN OF TROY

This is the vase of Love

Whose feet would ever rove

O'er land and sea;

Whose hopes forever seek

Bright eyes, the vermeiled cheek,

And ways made free.

Do we not understand

Why thou didst leave thy land,

Thy spouse, thy hearth?

Helen of Troy, Greek art

Hath made our heart thy heart,

Thy mirth our mirth.

For Paris did appear,—

Curled hair and rosy ear

And tapering hands.

He spoke — the blood ran fast,

He touched, and killed the past,

And clove its bands.

And this, I deem, is why

The restless ages sigh,

Helen, for thee.

Whate'er we do or dream,

Whate'er we say or seem,

We would be free.

We would forsake old love,

And all the pain thereof,

And all the care;

We would find out new seas,

And lands more strange than these,

And flowers more fair.

We would behold fresh skies

Where summer never dies

And amaranths spring;

Lands where the halcyon hours

Nest over scented bowers

On folded wing.

We would be crowned with bays,

And spend the long bright days

On sea or shore;

Or sit by haunted woods,

And watch the deep sea's moods,

And hear its roar.

Beneath that ancient sky

Who is not fain to fly

As men have fled?

Ah! we would know relief

From marts of wine and beef,

And oil and bread.

Helen of Troy, Greek art

Hath made our heart thy heart,

Thy love our love.

For poesy, like thee,

Must fly and wander free

As the wild dove.