Helen Raised Her Noble Head

Helen raised her noble head
A silver, molten tear rolled down
Her crescent face, now Troy must dread
There is no Paris to be found.

A suffering nation suffers not
Encased in bland but warm content
Now must the raging, fiery hand
Set torch to souls not often rent.

Alas, weeps Helen, tis a horrid
Loss be felt for beauty mine
Some Lord perhaps will sail across
The sea to free me, given time!

So shrugs she off the tragic fate
Unearthly beauty brings yet now
As men gaze first then learn to hate
The passions Helen has aroused.

Tis not her fault that she doth dwell
In such a place where color fled
And was not seen again until
The lady raised her noble head.