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I am she

Whose flesh is dust, whose flesh can never die;

Helen I am, and yet not Helen, I;

The maid that was, the proud bewildered girl

A world made battle for,—she only sought

Long silence, long forgetfulness of wars,

And burning moon-fire, and the nightingales.

But even dead ye troubled me, ye brought

The wide flare of your searching through the stars

To harry me, my name was driven leaf

In winds of your great longing, I became

All songs that all men sang me, all faint dreams

That sought back into time for me, all grief

Of hearts but half-forgetting,—I am these.

I am the pain of young men memorous

Of beauty that they never knew, and loss

They never suffered. I am love that flames

Sometimes at twilight when forlorn sweet names

Of beautiful dead women make a tune

Like lost Sirenicas. I am the fire

Your passion builded, shadow of your hearts,