Helen At The Loom

Helen, in her silent room,     Weaves upon the upright loom;     Weaves a mantle rich and dark,     Purpled over, deep. But mark     How she scatters o'er the wool     Woven shapes, till it is full     Of men that struggle close, complex;     Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks     Arching high; spear, shield, and all     The panoply that doth recall     Mighty war; such war as e'en     For Helen's sake is waged, I ween.     Purple is the groundwork: good!     All the field is stained with blood -     Blood poured out for Helen's sake;     (Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!)     But the shapes of men that pass     Are as ghosts within a glass,     Woven with whiteness of the swan,     Pale, sad memories, gleaming wan     From the garment's purple fold     Where Troy's tale is twined and told.     Well may Helen, as with tender     Touch of rosy fingers slender     She doth knit the story in     Of Troy's sorrow and her sin,     Feel sharp filaments of pain     Reeled off with the well-spun skein,     And faint blood-stains on her hands     From the shifting, sanguine strands.     Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow:     What has been must be to-morrow;     Meekly to her fate she bows.     Heavenly beauties still will rouse     Strife and savagery in men:     Shall the lucid heavens, then,     Lose their high serenity,     Sorrowing over what must be?     If she taketh to her shame,     Lo, they give her not the blame, -     Priam's wisest counselors,     Aged men, not loving wars.     When she goes forth, clad in white,     Day-cloud touched by first moonlight,     With her fair hair, amber-hued     As vapor by the moon imbued     With burning brown, that round her clings,     See, she sudden silence brings     On the gloomy whisperers     Who would make the wrong all hers.     So, Helen, in thy silent room,     Labor at the storied loom;     (Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!)     Let thy aching sorrow make     Something strangely beautiful     Of this fabric; since the wool     Comes so tinted from the Fates,     Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates.     Thou shalt work with subtle force     All thy deep shade of remorse     In the texture of the weft,     That no stain on thee be left; -     Ay, false queen, shalt fashion grief,     Grief and wrong, to soft relief.     Speed the garment! It may chance,     Long hereafter, meet the glance,     Of Oenone; when her lord,     Now thy Paris, shall go tow'rd     Ida, at his last sad end,     Seeking her, his early friend,     Who alone can cure his ill,     Of all who love him, if she will.     It were fitting she should see     In that hour thine artistry,     And her husband's speechless corse     In the garment of remorse!     But take heed that in thy work     Naught unbeautiful may lurk.     Ah, how little signifies     Unto thee what fortunes rise,     What others fall! Thou still shall rule,     Still shalt twirl the colored spool.     Though thy yearning woman's eyes     Burn with glorious agonies,     Pitying the waste and woe,     And the heroes falling low     In the war around thee, here,     Yet the least, quick-trembling tear     'Twixt thy lids shall dearer be     Than life, to friend or enemy.     There are people on the earth     Doomed with doom of too great worth.     Look on Helen not with hate,     Therefore, but compassionate.     If she suffer not too much,     Seldom does she feel the touch     Of that fresh, auroral joy     Lighter spirits may decoy     To their pure and sunny lives.     Heavy honey 'tis she hives.     To her sweet but burdened soul     All that here she may control -     What of bitter memories,     What of coming fate's surmise,     Paris' passion, distant din     Of the war now drifting in     To her quiet - idle seems;     Idle as the lazy gleams     Of some stilly water's reach,     Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleach     A heavy arch; and, looking through,     Far away the doubtful blue     Glimmers, on a drowsy day,     Crowded with the sun's rich gray; -     As she stands within her room,     Weaving, weaving at the loom.