XXIX

Here have we made fair songs on psalteries

Played tenderly by lovers in all lands.

Sometimes the strings are smitten by harsh hands

Of anger, doubt, and frowning jealousies;

And sometimes are drawn forth sad threnodies

For dear Love dead. Let him who understands

Man's way with Woman loose the mystic bands

That bind my parabled heart-secrecies.

In dreams again o'er leagues of purple sea

My bark is borne to some far, fabled strand —

Dear, how the world is young! I seem to be

One of famed Helen's lovers; her command

Is in your eyes as you gaze forth from Troy —

Immortal in your beauty and your joy.