Poems (Scudder)/Psyche's Sleeping

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PSYCHE'S SLEEPING
Psyche's sleeping—For an hour lying still With her dark hair at the will ​Of the restless breeze that fanned All its dimly purpling floss Hither, thither—one small hand Lies palm upward on the moss. No more wistful sweet to see Rosy-veined anemone In the woods March winds are sweeping. See you not Weary Psyche's gently sleeping? Hush.
Psyche's sleeping—Look, a tiny butterfly Azure-tinted, hovers nigh Blossom of her lips half blown Then, a darting sunray gleams Over fast closed lids whereon Dusky-winged, the god of dreams Stealing all unknown, I wist Set his seal of amethyst. Did a shaggy faun come creeping, Would he not Leave her pure and fragrant sleeping? Hush.
Psyche's sleeping—See, how motionless there rests 'Twixt her faintly heaving breasts Treasure Venus gave to guard, Casket wrought in ruddy gold, Ebony and priceless sard Direful magic doth it hold Fearsome spells that none may break— ​Did she from her slumbers wake 'Twere to woe and endless weeping. Know you not 'Tis the soul that lies here sleeping? Hush.

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