To helen

Helen, thy beauty is to me

Like those nicean barks of yore,

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,

The weary, way-worn wanderer bore

To his own native shore

On desperate seas long wont to roam,

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,

Thy naiad airs have bought me home

To the glory that was greese,

And the grandeur that was rome

Lo! in your brilliant window-niche

How statue- like I see thee stand,

The agate lamp within thy hands

Ah! psyche, from the rigions which

Are holy-land!