Helen, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicean barks of yore,

That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,

The weary, way-worn 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

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To the glory that was Greece

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And the grandeur that was Rome.

 

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Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche

How statue-like I see thee stand!

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The agate lamp within thy hand,

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which

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Are Holy Land!