Poems (Scudder)/Psyche's Sleeping

by Antoinette Quinby Scudder

PSYCHE'S SLEEPING

Psyche's sleeping—
For an hour lying still
With her dark hair at the will
Of the restless breeze that fanned
All its dimly purpling floss
Hither, thither—one small hand
Lies palm upward on the moss.
No more wistful sweet to see
Rosy-veined anemone
In the woods March winds are sweeping.
See you not
Weary Psyche's gently sleeping?
Hush.

Psyche's sleeping—
Look, a tiny butterfly
Azure-tinted, hovers nigh
Blossom of her lips half blown
Then, a darting sunray gleams
Over fast closed lids whereon
Dusky-winged, the god of dreams
Stealing all unknown, I wist
Set his seal of amethyst.
Did a shaggy faun come creeping,
Would he not
Leave her pure and fragrant sleeping?
Hush.

Psyche's sleeping—
See, how motionless there rests
'Twixt her faintly heaving breasts
Treasure Venus gave to guard,
Casket wrought in ruddy gold,
Ebony and priceless sard
Direful magic doth it hold
Fearsome spells that none may break—
Did she from her slumbers wake
'Twere to woe and endless weeping.
Know you not
'Tis the soul that lies here sleeping?
Hush.