For such an one let lovers cry, Alas!
Since passion's leaguer shall break through in vain
To that cold centre of bright adamas.—
Storm through her being, rapturous spears of pain!
Ye shall not wound that queen of gracious guile,
The soul that with immortal trance keeps troth:
For Helen is in Egypt all the while,
Learning great magic from the Wife of Thoth.
Throned white and high on red-rose porphyry,
And coifed with golden wings, she lifts her eyes
O'er Nile's green lavers where most sacredly
The Pattern of the myriad Lotos lies,
Unto those clear horizons jasper-pale
Her heavenly Brethren ride in silver mail.