Edgar Allen Poe
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean 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,
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was
And the grandeur that was Rome.
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!
is, above all, the gift of oneself. - Jean Anouilh,
When I am sad and
weary. When I think all hope has gone.
When I walk along High Holborn,
I think of you with nothing on .
have most power to hurt us that we love. - Francis Beaumont