For Helen

LEAVING for France Cythera’s garden-alleys
wooded Amanthus and Mount Eryx shaded,
— the god with bow apparent — love upbraided
my barratry in all his sacred valleys.
Three times with lighter wings than falling lilies
he brushed my eyes, and, seared, the vision faded,
and all my heart was wounds, that praised, as they did,
Helen’s delight and love’s immortal malice.
‘’T is yours alone to praise those lips and eyes
(and therefore sing) where beauty matches kindness.
‘But if her wonder should transcend my line?’
‘I also am a singer,’ love replies.
‘And, if yours fail, my eyes will heal their blindness,
for, though the pen is yours, the words are mine.’

Love, be not arrogant, nor mock, superb,
the accidental malice of my Fate.
For all must ache with love or soon or late,
and naught’s too settled — seeming to disturb.
We are the noun, but Nemesis the verb
that, white or black, we cannot conjugate;
nor, like a tyrant, be you proudly great
but keep me still, though ridden on the curb.
Aye! love and war in this one thing are brothers —
For, as the victor may succumb to-morrow
to him to-day in speechless fear who flies,
so love’s despair may rally with the others,
in proof whereof behold my wreathèd sorrow,
trophy of the long battle with your eyes.