Glance at us once from your sacred tower,
Helen divine!
The cutworm crawls in the almond-flower,
The rats are eating the thrones of power, Song of
Yet glance at us once and the clouds will shower the Men
Our lips with wine! of Helen
Loosen your hair to the storm again,
To the whistling brine!
We are very desperate men,
Reeds when fire goes over the fen,