Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicéan 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 won't 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!