Haply, “Behold, he is at peace,” saith she:
“Alas! the apple for his lips—the dart
That follows its brief sweetness to his heart—
The wandering of his feet perpetually!”
A little space her glance is still and coy;
But if she give the fruit that works her spell,
Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy;
Then shall her bird’s strained throat the woe foretell,
And her far seas moan as a single shell,
And through her dark grove strike the light of Troy.