Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently, o'er a perfum'd sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont 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!