If while I sit flatter’d by this warm sun Death came to me, and kissed my mouth and brow, And eyelids which the warm light hovers through, I should not count it strange. Being half won By hours that with a tender sadness run, Who would not softly lean to lips which woo In the Earth’s grave speech? Nor could it aught undo Of Nature’s calm observances begun Still to be here the idle autumn day. Pale leaves would circle down, and lie unstirr’d Where’er they fell; the tired wind hither call Her gentle fellows; shining beetles stray Up their green courts; and only yon shy bird A little bolder grow ere evenfall.
This is the year’s despair: some wind last night Utter’d too soon the irrevocable word, And the leaves heard it, and the low clouds heard; So a wan morning dawned of sterile light; Flowers drooped, or showed a startled face and white; The cattle cowered, and one disconsolate bird Chirped a weak note; last came this mist and blurred The hills, and fed upon the fields like blight. Ah, why so swift despair! There yet will be Warm noons, the honey’d leavings of the year, Hours of rich musing, ripest autumn’s core, And late-heaped fruit, and falling hedge-berry, Blossoms in cottage-crofts, and yet, once more, A song, not less than June’s, fervent and clear.
She stood upon the wall of windy Troy, And lifted high both arms, and cried aloud With no man near:-- “Troy-town and glory of Greece Strive, let the flame aspire, and pride of life Glow to white heat! Great lords be strong, rejoice, Lament, know victory, know defeat--then die; Fair is the living many-coloured play Of hates and loves, and fair it is to cease, To cease from these and all Earth’s comely things. I, Helena, impatient of a couch Dim-scented, and dark eyes my face had fed, And soft captivity of circling arms, Come forth to shed my spirit on you, a wind And sunlight of commingling life and death. City and tented plain behold who stands Betwixt you! Seems she worth a play of swords, And glad expense of rival hopes and hates? Have the Gods given a prize which may content, Who set your games afoot,--no fictile vase, But a sufficient goblet of great gold, Embossed with heroes, filled with perfumed wine? How! doubt ye? Thus I draw the robe aside And bare the breasts of Helen.