Classic Poem

Psyche, so fair, thou art asleep,
So calm and deep
Thy slumber seems,
Surely thy happy eyes will weep
If Love awake thee from thy dreams.

Were it not better to be blind
To things behind
The world of sense,
Than, waking from a dream, to find
Love's terrible omnipotence?

Holding thy very heart in fief—
A crimson leaf
His breath may blow,
A ruby cup of joy or grief,
Which for his lips must overflow.

Are not thy dreams a garden bright,
Full of delight
And summer bliss?
And will not Passion sear and blight
Its beauty with his burning kiss?

Perchance, perchance,—and yet I know
That pang and throe
Thou wilt forgive
To love who teaches even so
Thy blood to flow, thy heart to live.