( A PAINTING BY SIR EDWARD BURNE-JONES )

Sweet Psyche, hath thy quest of Love
So led thee to a sterile land,
Only to grief and fear at last?
What stranger this who bends above
Thy beauty? What unshapely hand
Hides in the glory of thy hair?
Pale wanderer, thy long sorrows past,
May find no solace in those eyes,
Though wistfully they scrutinize
Thy face, and, dimly, know it fair.

Go thou thy way bright Love to find;
And in the bliss of his embrace
Thou shalt forget Pan's dusky face.
Go thou thy way bright Love to find;
While Pan, forsaken, like a brute
Turns to his fare of nut and root;
Yet change hath passed on the dark mind:
Nor god nor beast now, from his flute
Low human music haunts the wind.