d far--and far behind
We hear Paris' piping blown
After us, calling thee and making moan
(For all the leaves that have no strength to cry,
The young leaves and the dry),
Desiring thee to bless these woods again,
Making most heavy moan
For withered myrtle-flowers,
For all thy Paphian bowers
Empty and sad beneath a setting sun;
For dear days done!

The Naiads splash in the blue forest-pools--
"Idalia--Idalia!" they cry.
"On Ida's hill,
With flutings faint and shrill,--
On Ida's hill the shepherds vainly try
Their songs, and coldly stand their damsels by,
Whatever tunes they try;
For beauty is not, and Love may not be,
On land or sea--
Oh, not in earth or heaven, on land or sea,
While darkness holdeth thee."
The Naiads weep beside their forest-pools,
And from the oaks a hundred voices call,
"Come back to us, O thou desired of all!
Elsewhere the air is sultry: here it cools
And full it is of pine scents: here is still
The world-pain that has driven from Ida's hill
Thine unreturning feet.

Alas! the days so fleet that were, and sweet,
When kind thou wert, and dear,
And all the loves dwelt here!
Alas! thy giftless hands, thy wandering feet!
Oh, here for Pithys' sake the air is sweet
And here snow falls not, neither burns the sun
Nor any winds make moan for dear days done.
Come, then: the woods are emptied all of glee,
And all the world is sad, desiring thee!"

--Nora Hopper

HELEN OF TROY

I am that Helen, that very Helen
Of Leda, born in the days of old:
Men's hearts as inns that I might dwell in:
Houseless I wander to-night, and cold.

Because man loved me, no God takes pity:
My ghost goes wailing where I was Queen!
Alas! my chamber in Troy's tall city,
My golden couches, my hangings green!

Wasted with fire are the halls they built me,
And sown with salt are the streets I trod,
Where flowers they scattered and spices spilt me--
Alas, that Zeus is a jealous God!

Softly I went on my sandals golden;
Of love and pleasure I took my fill;
With Paris' kisses my lips were holden,
Nor guessed I, when life went at my will,
That the fates behind me went softlier still.

--Nora Hopper

AN ETRUSCAN RING

Where, girt with orchard and with oliveyard,
The white hill-fortress glimmers on the hill,
Day after day an ancient goldsmith's skill
Guided the copper graver, tempered hard
By some lost secret, while he shaped the sard
Slowly to beauty, and his tiny dri