‘There came from me a sigh of pain Which I could ill confine; I looked at her, and looked again, And did not wish her mine!’
Matthew is in his grave, yet now, Methinks, I see him stand, As at that moment, with a bough Of wilding in his hand.
[ TO HELEN]
Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicèan 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, To 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!
E. A. Poe.