O Goddess
hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung Even into thine own soft-conched ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes...
The butterfly the ancient Grecians
The soul's fair emblem, and its only name--But of the soul, escaped the slavish
Of mortal life
-- For in this earthly
I have no gold, no lands, no robes of splendor,
No crowd of sycophants to siege my door;
But fortune in one thing at least is tender--For Psyche loves me
Could I ask for more