Edgar Allen Poe
Martin, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a wine-dark sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
In desperate seas long want to roam,
Thy willowy 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 portrait painting
How statute-like I see thee stand,
The leathery books on thy desk!
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!