Helen

Wood-people on whatever ocean-down
Might have believed her coming was the spring,
And when she drifted to the tallest town
She still was Primavera of the ring.
Lighting the sky afar, she set on fire
The river of whatever Latin Quarter
Of any city with the same desire
That lit a thousand ships for Leda's daughter.

She that returns, with one accustomed fame
On boulevard or alley, with one duty,
To be a synonym for Helen's name,
To burn a taper wasting into beauty,—
Though I were witness sworn to verity
How shall I blame her who sets beauty free?
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