Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
To his own native shore
On desperate seas long won't 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!