Menelaus And Helen

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