The Story of Cupid & Psyche

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Priory Press, 1912 - 97 pages
 

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Page x - Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 0 brightest! though too late for antique vows, Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, When holy were the haunted forest boughs, Holy the air, the water and the fire; Yet even in these days so far retir'd From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 1 see and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
Page xi - And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain. With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night. To let the warm Love in!
Page x - So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours ; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming ; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
Page x - Olympus' faded hierarchy! Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heap'd with flowers; Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan Upon the midnight hours; No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet From chain-swung censer teeming; No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
Page ix - They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: The winged boy I knew; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? His Psyche true! O latest born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus
Page ix - Psyche with awaken'd eyes? 1 wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side...
Page ix - Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung Even into thine own soft-conched ear: Surely I dreamt today, or did I see The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
Page x - Olympians, 1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.
Page iii - From the Latin of Apuleius. By Charles Stuttaford. Illustrated by Jessie Mothersole.

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