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

    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!