Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o'er a perfum'd sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy cla**ic face
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand!
The agate lamp within thy hand
Ah! Psyche from the regions which
Are Holy Land!