IN her hand the little lamp, and Mighty passion in her breast, Psyche creepeth to the couch where Her dear sleeper takes his rest. How she blushes, how she trembles, When his beauty she descries! He, the God of love, unveil'd thus, Soon awakes and quickly flies. Eighteen hundred years' repentance! And the poor thing nearly died! Psyche fasts and whips herself still, For she Amor naked spied. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOMAGE TO THE BRITISH MUSEUM by WILLIAM EMPSON BILL AND JOE by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES THE COTTON BOLL by HENRY TIMROD GRECIAN KINDNESS: A SONG by JOHN WILMOT THE FOLLY OF BEING COMFORTED by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |