Helen, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicean barks of yore,

That gently, o'er a perfum'd sea,

The weary wayworn wanderer bore

To his own native shore.

 

On desperate seas long wont to roam,

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

To the beauty of fair Greece,

And the grandeur of old Rome.

 

Lo! in that little window-niche

How statue-like I see thee stand!

The folded scroll within thy hand —

Ah! Psyche from the regions which

Are Holy land!

E. A. P.