Edgar A. Poe

Helen, thy beauty is to meLike those Nicean barks of yoreThat gently, o'er a perfumed sea,The weary, way-worn wanderer boreTo his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,Thy Naiad airs have brought me homeTo the glory that was GreeceAnd the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-nicheHow statue-like I see thee stand!The agate lamp within thy hand,Ah! Psyche, from the regions whichAre Holy Land!

Ligeia! Ligeia!My beautiful one,Whose harshest ideaWill to melody run,Say, is it thy will,On the breezes to toss,Or, capriciously still,Like the lone albatross,Incumbent on night,As she on the air,To keep watch with delightOn the harmony there?

—— "with an eye serene,The very pulse of the machine,"

"For much imaginary work was there;Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,That for Achilles' image stood his spearGrasped in an armed hand; himself behindWas left unseen, save to the eye of mind."