Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/857

 EDGAR ALLAN POE 701 To Helen

HELEN, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean 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 sec thce stand, The agate lamp within thy hand'

Ah' Psyche, from the regions which Are holy land!

��702 For Annie

^HANK Heaven ' the crisis The danger is past, And the lingering illness

Is over at last And the fever called 'Living* Is conquered at last.

as

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