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 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!