Psyche, my soul, unmoved by worldly things,
Loves all unknowing, love who came by night.
Love in the dark, for whom her being sings,
Whose presence makes all meaningless the light.
And
love, who takes all unto himself, took her
Who was content to trust, not understanding.
But worldliness, her sister, made demur.
And Psyche listened to her proud demanding.
“Let
in the earthly light of day and find
What your love is to common people’s eyes!”
And so my soul, hoping he would not mind,
Allowed the world her love to criticise.
And
straight he left her. Now too late she weeps.
And through the world her weary questing keeps.
Freda
Davis 2009 |
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