Helen.

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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 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!

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