HELEN dwelt in old Troy city All to sow the sad brave ditty Of the wearifullest pity Men have ever wrought; Yet her years were long and painless, All her lovers left her gainless, Smiles she gave and grey eyes rainless, Right good was her lot. In her dim blue woollen cloaking Slipped she through the May-dew's soaking, Till her little hands fell knocking Nigh the well-house stair; In a hawthorn's light she pondered While dark dew her gleam-feet laundered; Paris knew not that she wandered, So he did not care. Helen was the dearest lady, Woodbined with deep tresses shady, Eyes a-calling, arms a-ready, Ever stirred men's verse; Yet the highest king to-day Liefer with my hands would play, And his mouth to mine would lay Liefer than to hers. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: THE PORTRAIT by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON EPITAPH ON THE MONUMENT OF SIR WILLIAM DYER by KATHERINE DYER LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 6. SPRING by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM GREENES FUNERALLS: SONNET 4 by RICHARD BARNFIELD ECHOES OF SPRING: 8 by MATHILDE BLIND EARLY VENEZIAN DETAIL by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |