Helen, thy beauty is to me 
Like those Nicean barks of yore, 
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 
The weary, wayworn 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!