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the shaft that brought them all this peace.

      He in their love went sunning, took his ease

       In house and hall, at council or at feast,

       Careless of what was greatest or what least

       Of all his deeds, so only by his side

       She lay, the blush-rose Helen, stolen bride,

       The lovely harbour of his arms. But she,

       A thrall, now her own thralldom plain could see,

       And sick of dalliance, loathed herself, and him

       Who had beguiled her. Now through eyes made dim

       With tears she looked towards the salt sea-beach

       Where stood the ships, and sought for sign in each

       If it might be her people's, and so hers,

       Poor alien!—Argive now herself she avers

       And proudly slave of Paris and no wife:

       Minion she calls herself; and when to strife

       Of love he claims her, secret her heart surges

       Back to her lord; and when to kiss he urges,

       And when to play he woos her with soft words,

       Secret her fond heart calleth, like a bird's,

       Towards that honoured mate who honoured her,

       Making her wife indeed, not paramour,

       Mother, and sharer of his hearth and all

       His gear. Thus every night: and on the wall

       She watches every dawn for what dawn brings.

       And the strong spirit of her took new wings

       And left her lovely body in the arms

       Of him who doted, conning o'er her charms,

       And witless held a shell; but forth as light

       As the first sigh of dawn her spirit took flight

       Across the dusky plain to where fires gleamed

       And muffled guards stood sentry; and it streamed

       Within the hut, and hovered like a wraith,

       A presence felt, not seen, as when gray Death

       Seems to the dying man a bedside guest,

       But to the watchers cannot be exprest.

       So hovered Helen in a dream, and yearned

       Over the sleeper as he moaned and turned,

       Renewing his day's torment in his sleep;

       Who presently starts up and sighing deep,

       Searches the entry, if haply in the skies

       The day begin to stir. Lo there, her eyes

       Like waning stars! Lo there, her pale sad face

       Becurtained in loose hair! Now he can trace

       Athwart that gleaming moon her mouth's droopt bow

       To tell all truth about her, and her woe

       And dreadful store of knowledge. As one shockt

       To worse than death lookt she, with horror lockt

       Behind her tremulous tragic-moving lips:

       "O love, O love," saith he, and saying, slips

       Out of the bed: "Who hath dared do thee wrong?"

       No answer hath she, but she looks him long

       And deep, and looking, fades. He sleeps no more,

       But up and down he pads the beaten floor,

       And all that day his heart's wild crying hears,

       And can thank God for gracious dew of tears

       And tender thoughts of her, not thoughts of shame.

       So came the next night, and with night she came,

       Dream-Helen; and he knew then he must go

       Whence she had come. His need would have it so—

       And her need. Never must she call in vain.

       Now takes he way alone over the plain

       Where dark yet hovers like a catafalque

       And all life swoons, and only dead thing walk,

       Uneasy sprites denied a resting space,

       That shudder as they flit from place to place,

       Like bats of flaggy wing that make night blink

       With endless quest: so do those dead, men think,

       Who fall and are unserved by funeral rite.

       These passes he, and nears the walls of might

       Which Godhead built for proud Laomedon,

       And knows the house of Paris built thereon,

       Terraced and set with gadding vines and trees

       And ever falling water, for the ease

       Of that sweet indweller he held in store.

       Thither he turns him quaking, but before

       Him dares not look, lest he should see her there

       Aglimmer through the dusk and, unaware,

       Discover her fill some mere homely part

       Intolerably familiar to his heart,

       And deeply there enshrined and glorified,

       Laid up with bygone bliss. Yet on he hied,

       Being called, and ever closer on he came

       As if no wrong nor misery nor shame

       Could harder be than not to see her—Nay,

       Even if within that smooth thief's arms she lay

       Besmothered in his kisses—rather so

       Had he stood stabbed to see, than on to go

       His round of lonely exile!

       Now he stands

       Beneath her house, and on his spear his hands

       Rest, and upon his hands he grounds his chin,

       And motionless abides till day come in;

       Pure of his vice, that he might ease her woe,

       Not brand her with his own. Not yet the glow

       Of false dawn throbbed, nor yet the silent town

       Stood washt in light, clear-printed to the crown

       In the cold upper air. Dark loomed the walls,

       Ghostly the trees, and still shuddered the calls

       Of owl to owl from unseen towers. Afar

       A dog barked. High and hidden in the haar

       Which blew in from the sea a heron cried

       Honk! and he heard his wings, but not espied

       The heavy flight. Slow, slow the orb was filled

       With light, and with the light his heart was thrilled

       With opening music, faint, expectant, sharp

       As the first chords one picks out from the harp

       To prelude paean. Venturing all, he lift

       His eyes, and there encurtained in a drift

       Of sea-blue mantle close-drawn, he espies

       Helen above him watching, her grave eyes

       Upon him fixt, blue homes of mystery

       Unfathomable, eternal as the sea,

       And as unresting.

       So in that still place,

       In that still hour stood those two face to face.

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