Chapter XXIX

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.