To Helen—There's magic in thy name—When I would write, the web of fancyEncircles thee with necromancy—Thy name embowers thee in wreathesOf beauty—like thine amber hair.Poets to thee have made many poemsFrom that far time when beautyDrowned the memory of despair;To one, Poe wrote to her of the "enchanted garden";To thee, who wearest in thy nameThe wreathes of many poets,Could I say more than this—To Helen?
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