Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wandered 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
And the grandeur that was
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
Allan Edgar Poe