Helen All Greece hatesthe still eyes in the white face,the lustre as of oliveswhere she stands,and the white hands.All Greece revilesthe wan face when she smiles,hating it deeper stillwhen it grows wan and white,remembering past enchantmentsand past ills.Greece sees, unmoved,God’s daughter, born of love,the beauty of cool feetand slenderest knees,could love indeed the maid,only if she were laid,white ash amid funereal cypresses.
-H.D.
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