Wild flight on flight against the fading dawn
The flames’ red wings soar upward duskily.
This is the funeral pyre and Troy is dead
That sparkled so the day I saw it first,
And darkened slowly after. I am she
Who loves all beauty — yet I wither it.
“Helen of Troy,” Sara Teasdale
When it first comes to my mind, worship always seems to me a singularly religious concept…