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.