Classic Poem

HIGH-BORN Helen, round your dwelling
 These twenty years I've paced in vain:
Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty
 Hath been to glory in his pain.

High-born Helen, plainly telling
 Stories of thy cold disdain;
I starve, I die, now you comply,
 And I no longer can complain.

These twenty years I've lived on tears,
 Dwelling for ever on a frown;
On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread;
 I perish now you kind are grown.

Can I, who loved my beloved
 But for the scorn “was in her eye,”
Can I be moved for my beloved,
 When she “returns me sigh for sigh?”

In stately pride, by my bed-side,
 High-born Helen's portrait's hung;
Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays
 Are nightly to the portrait sung.

To that I weep, nor ever sleep,
 Complaining all night long to her—
Helen, grown old, no longer cold,
  Said , “you to all men I prefer.”