To the eyes of the anxious fool.
For the secret form of the soul
Is there in its terror shown
—And it rends the sight like a crumbling coal
Till the eyes of the fool are stone!
It was this and this that your ardor sought!
I am Wisdom’s mirror! Behold me not!
Then, like a forgotten tumult of the heart,
The multitude of men who died for Helen,
Vague, terrible, wounded forms began to chant.