I <br /> <br />Hot through Troy's ruin Menelaus broke <br /> To Priam's palace, sword in hand, to sate <br /> On that adulterous whore a ten years' hate <br />And a king's honour. Through red death, and smoke, <br />And cries, and then by quieter ways he strode, <br /> Till the still innermost chamber fronted him. <br /> He swung his sword, and crashed into the dim <br />Luxurious bower, flaming like a god. <br /> <br />High sat white Helen, lonely and serene. <br /> He had not remembered that she was so fair, <br />And that her neck curved down in such a way; <br />And he felt tired. He flung the sword away, <br /> And kissed her feet, and knelt before her there, <br />The perfect Knight before the perfect Queen. <br /> <br /> <br /> II <br /> <br />So far the poet. How should he behold <br /> That journey home, the long connubial years? <br /> He does not tell you how white Helen bears <br />Child on legitimate child, becomes a scold, <br />Haggard with virtue. Menelaus bold <br /> Waxed garrulous, and sacked a hundred Troys <br /> 'Twixt noon and supper. And her golden voice <br />Got shrill as he grew deafer. And both were old. <br /> <br />Often he wonders why on earth he went <br /> Troyward, or why poor Paris ever came. <br />Oft she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent; <br /> Her dry shanks twitch at Paris' mumbled name. <br />So Menelaus nagged; and Helen cried; <br />And Paris slept on by Scamander side.<br /><br />Rupert Brooke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/menelaus-and-helen/
