Of radiance, more sense than thought,
Like soundless music somehow caught
Back of the brain, or some impress
Of figures in a dream forgot—
And there stands Helen—there's the face
Young Marlowe saw past time and space
And would have seen again and died;
There, there the subtle breast, the side
White as white water, there the grace
Of queens and there the pride, the pride.
Helen, he said,—but was it she?
Somewhere he'd seen serenity
Drawn smooth as this across a flame
As bright to hide, and brows that tame
Eyes as unapt to secrecy,—
Nay, he had known these eyes, this same
Young breast, this throat.—There was a name—
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