O braid thy tresses Helen-wise, Put naught but roses in thine hair, And tread with me where Attic skies Make sweet the air. Still the eternal hills behold The feast of gods in Thessaly, And still the Muses' songs are rolled Across the sea. Still pipes the great Arcadian Pan Within the ears of all that heed The music of Earth's ancient plan On deathless reed. And still the wise Odysseus hears Circe the sun-born sorceress sing, And turns her triumph into tears Of welcoming. For thee and me 'tis not the past That seems unreal, alien, strange; The beautiful must always last Secure from change. So braid thy tresses Helen-wise, Put naught but roses in thine hair, And tread with me where Attic skies Make sweet the air. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ALEXANDER THROCKMORTON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS I WANT TO LIVE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON VASHTI by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE DESIRE OF NATIONS by EDWIN MARKHAM SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JOHN CABANIS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS OF ANY OLD MAN by ISAAC ROSENBERG |