There was born to the world last night 
A woman-child for the world's delight. 
Her mouth was small as a rosebud is 
Before the bee and the blossom kiss; 
Her hair was a cloud and her eyes were fire. 
Her hands were full of delight and desire. 
Her cheek was a rose full blossoming. 
Her voice was honey, her tongue a sting. 

Before the night took thought of the day 
The child was born — with a caul, they say. 
The caul shall serve her in place of a charm, 
That water and fire shall not do her harm. 
The child was born to bring all men grief. 
Hunger and thirsting beyond relief. 
An ill star shone on the bitter morn 
When the mother died and the child was bom. 

She shall be christened with water of tears. 
With doubtful pleasure and trembling fears; 
We will name her Helen, that she shall be 
A warning, a wonder 'twixt sea and sea. 
Though the waves o'erwhelm her, she shall not drown. 
She shall not burn in the burning town: 
Except she burn of her own white fire. 
The world's disaster, the world's desire. 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main,—
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed,—
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn!
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!