The On-Looker

Suppose I plant youLike wide-eyed HelenOn the battlementsOf weary Troy,Clutching the parapet with desperate hands.She, too, gazes at a battle-fieldWhere bright vermilion plumes and metal whitenessShock and sparkle and go down with groans.Her glances strike the rocking battle,Again—again—Recoiling from itLike baffled spear-heads fallen from a brazen shield.The ancients at her elbow counsel patience and contingencies;Such to a woman stretched upon a bed of battle,Who bargained for this only in the whispering arrasEnclosed about a midnight of enchantment.