Читать книгу Selections from Poe - Эдгар Аллан По, Edgar Allan Poe, Marta Fihel - Страница 12

Helen, thy beauty is to me

  Like those Nicæan 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!