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!