Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900/Ode to Psyche
For other versions of this work, see Ode to Psyche.
626. Ode to Psyche
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrungBy sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,And pardon that thy secrets should be sungEven into thine own soft-conchèd ear:Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I seeThe wingèd Psyche with awaken'd eyes?I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by sideIn deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roofOf leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ranA brooklet, scarce espied:'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed,Blue, silver-white, and budded TyrianThey lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too;Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber,And ready still past kisses to outnumberAt tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:The wingèd boy I knew;But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?His Psyche true!
O latest-born and loveliest vision farOf all Olympus' faded hierarchy!Fairer than Phœbe's sapphire-region'd star,Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,Nor altar heap'd with flowers;Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moanUpon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweetFrom chain-swung censer teeming;No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heatOf pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
O brightest! though too late for antique vows,Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,When holy were the haunted forest boughs,Holy the air, the water, and the fire;Yet even in these days so far retiredFrom happy pieties, thy lucent fans,Fluttering among the faint Olympians,I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.So let me be thy choir, and make a moanUpon the midnight hours;Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweetFrom swingèd censer teeming:Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heatOf pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a faneIn some untrodden region of my mind,Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd treesFledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep;And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;And in the midst of this wide quietnessA rosy sanctuary will I dressWith the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,Who, breeding flowers, will never breed the same; And there shall be for thee all soft delightThat shadowy thought can win,A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,To let the warm Love in!