Here have we made fair songs on psalteries
Played tenderly by lovers in all lands.
Sometimes the strings are smitten by harsh hands
Of anger, doubt, and frowning jealousies;
And sometimes are drawn forth sad threnodies
For dear Love dead. Let him who understands
Man's way with Woman loose the mystic bands
That bind my parabled heart-secrecies.
In dreams again o'er leagues of purple sea
My bark is borne to some far, fabled strand--
Dear, how the world is young! I seem to be
One of famed Helen's lovers; her command
Is in your eyes as you gaze forth from Troy--
Immortal in your beauty and your joy.