(And the wind of Fate is blowing.)
And a wooden horse is trampling Troy
As a hoof-thrust crushes a crumpling toy.
Ruddy and gold where the torches stare
Helena sits in her carven chair.
Lovely and strange as a moonlit cloud—
But her head droops down like a petal bowed.
Beneath her the blood and the wine run deep
—But her eyes are seas more quiet than sleep.
The drunkards brawl and the cup goes round;