I actually liked Helen in Egypt, although it has to be taken in small doses and I carefully ignore the prose abstracts at the head of each section. For all its repetition, I think some of its language is beautiful:

Did her eyes slant in the old way?
was she Greek or Egyptian?
had some Phoenician sailor wrought her?

was she oak-wood or cedar?
had she been cut from an awkward block
of ship-wood at the ship-builders,

and afterwards riveted there,
or had the prow itself been shaped
to her mermaid body,

curved to her mermaid hair?
was there a dash of paint
in the beginning, in the garment-fold,

did the blue afterwards wear away?
did they re-touch her arms, her shoulders?
did anyone touch her ever?

Had she other zealot and lover,
or did he alone worship her?
did she wear a girdle of sea-weed

or a painted crown? how often
did her high breasts meet the spray,
how often dive down?
(Eidolon 3.4)

. . . or the closing lines:

But what could Paris know of the sea,
its beat and long reverberation,
its booming and delicate echo,

its ripple that spells a charm
on the sand, the rock-lichen,
the sea-moss, the sand,

and again and again, the sand . . .

Lines like those, for me, make the whole recursive tangle worthwhile. It's all scattered throughout; so I keep reading.

What was your Helen poem?