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Helena.

Last night I saw Helena. She whose praise

Of late all men have sounded. She for whom

Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb

Rather than live without her all his days.

Wise men go mad who look upon her long,

She is so ripe with dangers. Yet meanwhile

I find no fascination in her smile,

Although I make her theme of this poor song.

"Her golden tresses?" yes, they may be fair,

And yet to me each shining silken tress

Seems robbed of beauty and all lusterless -

Too many hands have stroked Helena's hair.

(I know a little maiden so demure

She will not let her one true lover's hands

In playful fondness touch her soft brown bands,

So dainty-minded is she, and so pure.)

"Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night?

Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?" that may be,

And yet they are not beautiful to me.

Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.

(I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hid

So underneath white curtains, and so veiled

That I have sometimes plead for hours, and failed

To see more than the shyly lifted lid.)

"Her perfect mouth so like a carv'd kiss?"

"Her honeyed mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?"

I would not taste its sweetness for a crown;

Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss.

(I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried,

Lies like a young grape's bloom, untouched and sweet,

And though I plead in passion at her feet,

She would not let me brush it if I died.)

In vain, Helena! though wise men may vie

For thy rare smile or die from loss of it,

Armored by my sweet lady's trust, I sit,

And know thou art not worth her faintest sigh.