Edgar Allan Poe

       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!