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...AGING TOGETHER by CLARENCE MAJOR EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD by ROBERT BURNS SWITZERLAND by JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID by MATTHEW ARNOLD BILL SWEENY OF THE BLACK GANG by JAMES BARNES THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN - PROLOGUE FOR MISS FONTENELLE by ROBERT BURNS A BACCHANALIAN RANT by HENRY CAREY (1687-1743) |