That unjust man, the god in grapple throws. Such an one, Paris goes Within the Atreidai’s house — Shamed the guest’s board by robbery of the spouse.
 And, leaving to her townsmen throngs a-spread With shields, and spear-thrusts of sea-armament, And bringing Ilion , in a dowry’s stead, Destruction — swiftly through the gates she went, Daring the undareable. But many a groan outbroke From prophets of the House as thus they spoke. Woe, woe the House, the House and Rulers, — woe The marriage-bed and dints A husband’s love imprints! There she stands silent! meets no honour — no Shame — sweetest still to see of things gone long ago! And, through desire of one across the main, A ghost will seem within the house to reign. And hateful to the husband is the grace Of well-shaped statues: from — in place of eyes Those blanks — all Aphrodite dies. But dream-appearing mournful fantasies — There they stand, bringing grace that’s vain. For vain ’t is, when brave things one seems to view; The fantasy has floated off, hands through; Gone, that appearance, — nowise left to creep, — On wings, the servants in the paths of sleep! Woes, then, in household and on hearth, are such As these—and woes surpassing these by much. But not these only: everywhere — For those who from the land