Classic Poem

Faint babbling voices murmur of thy fame,
Helen of Troy, in chambers of the past;
To us, far off, come clear and loud at last
The growing echoes of thy potent name.
Such splendid image fancy ne'er can frame;
The form divine might be from sculpture guessed,
But who may know what soul the face expressed,
Whose eyes dealt madness in contagious flame?
Old Homer never, with free stroke and bold,
Made vivid painting of thee for our ken.
Of Beauty's prowess 'twas he ever told —
Of dreadful wars, and hosts of maddened men.
Who now can Beauty's subtle charms unfold?
The wars they make reveal them now as then