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 wont¹ to roam，

    Thy hyacinth hair， thy classic face，

    Thy Naiad airs have brought me home

    To the glory that was Greece.

    And the grandeur² that was Rome.

    Lo！ in yon brilliant window-niche

    How statue-like I see thee stand！

    The agate³ lamp within thy hand，

    Ah！ Psyche⁴ from the regions which

    Are Holy Land！