The other day you met me on the stairs. You chanced
to turn to me, and look, and by that single look
I was so dazzled that my very being shook
to find itself regarded. You had merely glanced
and yet you pierced my heart, you fired my blood (the way
a lightning bolt splits rain clouds in a summer sky)
with sweating, freezing fever, so I feared to die
of injuries your searing look had dealt that day:
and would have, but a gesture of your lovely hand
kept me alive; its movement said, ‘I understand.
I’m Helen, Leda’s daughter, fathered by a Swan.’
Without that swan-sign, to the shades I would have gone.
The victory your eyes inflicted was complete;
your white hand joyfully revived me in defeat.