What's O'Clock/The On-Looker
THE ON-LOOKER
Suppose I plant you Like wide-eyed Helen On the battlements Of weary Troy, Clutching the parapet with desperate hands. She, too, gazes at a battle-field Where bright vermilion plumes and metal whiteness Shock and sparkle and go down with groans. Her glances strike the rocking battle, Again—again—Recoiling from it Like baffled spear-heads fallen from a brazen shield. The ancients at her elbow counsel patience and contingencies; Such to a woman stretched upon a bed of battle, Who bargained for this only in the whispering arras Enclosed about a midnight of enchantment.