Helen
I am she
Whose flesh is dust, whose flesh can never die;
Helen I am, and yet not Helen, I;
The maid that was, the proud bewildered girl
A world made battle for,—she only sought
Long silence, long forgetfulness of wars,
And burning moon-fire, and the nightingales.
But even dead ye troubled me, ye brought
The wide flare of your searching through the stars
To harry me, my name was driven leaf
In winds of your great longing, I became
All songs that all men sang me, all faint dreams
That sought back into time for me, all grief
Of hearts but half-forgetting,—I am these.
I am the pain of young men memorous
Of beauty that they never knew, and loss
They never suffered. I am love that flames
Sometimes at twilight when forlorn sweet names
Of beautiful dead women make a tune
Like lost Sirenicas. I am the fire
Your passion builded, shadow of your hearts,
