Helen - U. Valentine

She sits within the white oak hall, Hung with the trophies of the chase— Helen, a stately maid and tall, Dark-haired and pale of face; With drooping lids and eyes that brood, Sunk in the depths of some strange mood, She gazes in the fireplace, where The oozing pine logs snap and flare, Wafting the perfume of their native wood. The wind is whining in the garth, The leaves are at their dervish rounds, The flexile flames upon the hearth Hang out their tongues like panting hounds. The fire, I deem, she holds in thrall; Its red light fawns as she lets fall Escaloped pine-cones, dried and brown, From loose, white hands, till up and down The colored shadows dye the dusky wall. The tawny lamp flame tugs its wick; Upon the landing of the stair The ancient clock is heard to tick In shadows dark as Helen’s hair; And by a gentle accolade A squire to languid silence made, I lean upon my palms, with eyes O’er which a rack of fancy flies, While dreams like gorgeous sunsets flame and fade. And as I muse on Helen’s face, Within the firelight’s ruddy shine, Its beauty takes an olden grace Like hers whose fairness was divine; The dying embers leap, and, lo! Troy wavers vaguely all aglow, And in the north wind leashed without, I hear the conquering Argive’s shout; And Helen feeds the flames as long ago!