Classic Poem

The worm that fed on Helen's eyes
Closed a golden enterprise;
He touched no peril in those bones
As cold as cold stones;
Nor found that lovely flesh more sweet
Than other meat.

Enough of Helen: we will set
Her ghost upon her parapet;
Delve under death no more;
Shut the curt door:
Let the verdict of the mole
Delicately sift her soul.

O my Mother and you two,
I have found in you and you
Colour which the little dead
Helen might have coveted;
And the deep flame I find
No mole ever mined.

No worm's narrow strategem,
No mole with subtle phlegm,
Fastens an ubiquitous
Lip on us:
Love without lease or term —
No mole, no worm.