She rolls her eyes and shares her sunrise smile,
remaining poised with her hands in her hair
like classical sculpture in the style
of a master artisan who, with care,
renders the perfect form imbued with grace.
I think this, when she poses; she never
believes. No Cassandra, love . . . with her face,
sweetly tempting shape, she is forever
my Helen. Her every movement holds me fast,
awestruck, paralyzed in adoration,
praying that our study will always last,
envying that man her love's expression.
Ah, how willingly I would play Paris
to his comfortable Menelaos.
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