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.