Chapter VII

As if a pearl had golden wings and far
Had flown to purple lurings of a star,
From out her jewelled grotto still to seem,
The gladdest spirit of a precious dream,
And fluttering over misty mantled hills,
Hath fallen wearied, where her beauty fills,
Some fair recess within a mossy dingle,
For such a rest, and lieth all amingle
With gladdest flowers that ever quivered through
To kiss so sweet and strange a drop of dew--
A bit of beauty ravishing the brain,
'Till unremembered dream touch back again
And sketch sweet rainbows on the raptured soul,
Thus gaining e'en her spirits golden goal
Hath Psyche, curious Psyche fallen asleep.

Her jewelled urn, in bedded mosses deep,
Hath fall'n aside and lieth like a gem,
Of goddess lost from starry anadem.
And here the sun in drinking up the dew,
Hath paused to find an ancient thirst renew,
And, raptured connoisseur of dewy gems,
Would woo the nymph the stony silence hems.
But on her pearly cheek his amorous kisses,
Fall deadly cold. And all is warm caresses,
Unheeded. Lo! His godly art of change,
He fain work. And make some rare and strange
Addition to the old immortal throng:
Behold! Within the raptured skies of song,
Another music like the morning star!
Poor gentle Echo wandering far
Here finds her dear Narcissus kissing lips,
As sweet as hers. But while the honey drips
Of saddest love he poureth in those ears,
Meander's flowery vale a happy whisper hears:
"Narcissus, dear Narcissus now is free,
"Ah! sweet to sing, e'en though his eyes but see,
"This new divine." And pausing on her wings,
Her heart is free with old remembered things.
Poor wronged Arachne spins, a golden thread,
From oak to oak, and hoping wild has fled,
Along such path with such a beating heart,
To catch some dream that hedged her olden art.
It was not meet, in such an artist soul,
Should lurk a spider's venom, nor the whole
Of godly anger lessens this a bit.
And sad Arachne on her beam aflit,
Within a shower of hopes her soul doth steep,
To weave ah! thus to weave a soul asleep!
And Zephyr gathering anemones,
Among the flower beds her dear form sees,
Whom he of late in scented scarf hath borne,
With such fond care, and over seas of corn,
Of emerald depth far stretched in dreamy waves,
To flowery strands, where happy Flora laves
On April morns, he calls his love to view
This pearly fancy sleeping in the dew.
Sweet Flora goddess of the scented hours
Hath woven a dainty wreath of April flowers--
The tend'rest bloom she gathers for the scent
In maiden April's lap of wonderment--
A little wreath round head and feet and wing,
For Love-at-ease to call a fairy ring,
Where those enamored blooms must dance
For breezy joy about a soul in trance.