Helen whose face was fatal must have wept Many salt tears to keep her eyes so bright Many long nights alone: and every night Men died, she cried, and happy Paris kept Sweet Helen.

God is love, the bishops tell. Yes, I know, But love is hell.

Be kind, Helen, I am so tired of thinking; There are so many difficult corridors of thought, With equal iron banisters leading back again: So many stone stairs…

God is love, the parson whined. Yes, and is he also blind?