Classic Poem

Ah! poor Psyche, born mid shadows in this earthly vale of strife,
Long'st thou for ideal beauty, for a free and radiant life?
Yearn'st thou for a heavenly bridegroom? Hapless child, where leads thy way?
Will thy faint hope fail or will it reach the world of Bliss-for-Aye?

That's the riddle that besets thee, in the darkness dim-descried,
Whispering: “Trust thou and imagine, that is joy, O lovely bride!”
Thou, too bold, art not contented: thou wilt see and thou wilt know.
Well, thou seest—thy fortune vanished, and thou know'st—thy heart's deep woe.

Was that sinful thou didst long for? No, if thou with steadfast strength
Darest all for what thou lovest, crossing Death's black flood at length
In the search thy duty urges, thou may'st bring to light again
From the midst of Hades' horrors proof thy hope is not in vain.

So, then, Psyche, one must journey to Olympus' shining height,
For no untried mortal ever may attain the gods' delight.
Eros' arms and cup of nectar filled with joy that never dies
Are but for a full devotion shrinking from no sacrifice.