Issue 3, Autumn 1953
The huge wound in my head began to heal
About the beginning of the seventh week.
Its valleys darkened, its villages became still:
For joy I did not move and dared not speak,
Not doctors would cure it, but time, its patient skill.
And constantly my mind returned to Troy.
After I sailed the seas I fought in turn
On both sides, sharing even Helen’s joy
Of place and growing up—to see Troy burn—
As Neoptolemus, that stubborn boy.