Edgar Allan Poe(1809–1849)
To Helen
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks 5 of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont 0 to roam,accustomed
Thy hyacinth hair,6 thy classic face,
Thy Naiad 0 airs have brought me homenymphlike
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,7 from the regions which
Are Holy Land!
1831,1845