Noel Dark
She sleeps in bronze, the Helen of his dream,
Within the quiet of my little room,
Touched by the kindling birch-log's fitful gleam
To tenderer beauty in the rosy gloom.
She sleeps in bronze; and he who fashioned her,
Shaping the wet clay with such eager joy,
Slumbers as soundly where the cold winds stir
The withered tussocks on the plains of Troy.
Within the quiet of my little room,
Touched by the kindling birch-log's fitful gleam
To tenderer beauty in the rosy gloom.
She sleeps in bronze; and he who fashioned her,
Shaping the wet clay with such eager joy,
Slumbers as soundly where the cold winds stir
The withered tussocks on the plains of Troy.
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