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THY PSYCHE.
'T was thy soul-wife, 't was thy Psyche, one uplifted, heavenly day
Thou did'st call me,—how divinely on thy brow love's glory lay!
Thou, my Cupid,—not the boy-god whom the Thespians did adore,
But the man so large, so noble, truer god than Venus bore.
I, thy Psyche,—yet what blackness in this thread of gold is wove;
Thou canst never, never lead me proud before the throne of Jove!
All the gods might strive to help thee through the longest summer day;
Still would watch the fatal Sisters spinning in the twilight gray,
And their calm and silent faces, changeless, looking through the gloom,
From eternity would answer, "Thou canst ne'er escape thy doom."
Couldst thou claim me, couldst thou clasp me, 'neath the blue Elysian skies,
Then what music and what fragrance through their azure depths would rise!
Roses all the Hours would scatter; every god would bring us joy;
So, in perfect loving blended, bliss would never know alloy.
Thou did'st call me,—how divinely on thy brow love's glory lay!
Thou, my Cupid,—not the boy-god whom the Thespians did adore,
But the man so large, so noble, truer god than Venus bore.
I, thy Psyche,—yet what blackness in this thread of gold is wove;
Thou canst never, never lead me proud before the throne of Jove!
All the gods might strive to help thee through the longest summer day;
Still would watch the fatal Sisters spinning in the twilight gray,
And their calm and silent faces, changeless, looking through the gloom,
From eternity would answer, "Thou canst ne'er escape thy doom."
Couldst thou claim me, couldst thou clasp me, 'neath the blue Elysian skies,
Then what music and what fragrance through their azure depths would rise!
Roses all the Hours would scatter; every god would bring us joy;
So, in perfect loving blended, bliss would never know alloy.
