It’s Tuesday, so it must be. . . you know the rest. And if you have one functioning brain cell, the title told you what this entry is about.
So, do I put in the Raven? Too long. Annabel Lee? The Bells? Lovely, but a little oversweet. Then I thought that, since we’re still technically close enough to Valentine’s Day for another love poem. . . so Helen, wake up and listen!
As an armchair archaeologist, the last two lines of the second verse are what do it for me. . . and guys, I can assure you they work, if the woman you’re crooning them to is smart enough to understand. . .
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn 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!