Classic Poem

Helen is gone . . . and whither to pursue her
I know not. Soon accoutred, I pass down
The stately stair, up which the music drew her,
In that sweet hour to wear Love's roseate crown.
The place seems smaller now, the steps seem fewer;
No courteous knight, no damsel pale or brown,
Treads the long corridor where yestertide
They gloried in the beauty of my bride.