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 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!