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| The girl was a night staring dreamy-eyed child, waiting for her Master to bring the moonlight. The Man was holding in his one hand grains of stardust, and in the other a part from moon. He draw the way from moon beams to the lake of the stars for her to follow.
In discovering that we are oneness, the two halves find themselves centered within, we remember more and more of who and what we are. Here to hail and to thank the Universe, for completing us as oneness with the sweetest of the sins of old ages, in all the wings of the Love, for all the joy before death.
But where is she, the nymph whom late
We left before her glass delaying
Like Eve, when by the lake she sate,
In the clear wave her charms surveying,
And saw in that first glassy mirror
The first fair face that lured to error.
"Where is she," ask'st thou?--watch all looks
As centring to one point they bear,
Like sun-flowers by the sides of brooks,
Turned to the sun and she is there.
Even in disguise, oh never doubt
By her own light you'd track her out:
As when the moon, close shawled in fog,
Steals as she thinks, thro' heaven incog,
Tho' hid herself, some sidelong ray
At every step, detects her way.
But not in dark disguise to-night
Hath our young heroine veiled her light;
For see, she walks the earth, Love's own.
His wedded bride, by _holiest_ vow
Pledged in Olympus, and made known
To mortals by the type which now
Hangs glittering on her snowy brow,
That butterfly, mysterious trinket,
Which means the Soul (tho' few would think it),
And sparkling thus on brow so white,
Tells us we've Psyche here tonight!
But say, while light these songs resound,
What means that buzz of whispering round,
From lip to lip, as if the Power
Of Mystery, in this gay hour,
Had thrown some secret to that ring
Of rosy, restless lips, to be
Thus scrambled for so wantonly?
And, mark ye, still as each reveals
The mystic news, her hearer steals
A look towards yon enchanted chair,
Where, like the Lady of the Masque,
A nymph, as exquisitely fair
As Love himself for bride could ask,
Sits blushing deep, as if aware
Of the winged secret circling there.
Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse,
What, in the name of all odd things
That woman's restless brain pursues,
What mean these mystic whisperings?
Thus runs the tale: yon blushing maid,
Who sits in beauty's light arrayed,
While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise,
Who from her eyes, as all observe, is
Learning by heart the Marriage Service,
Is the bright heroine of our song,
The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long
We've missed among this mortal train,
We thought her winged to heaven again.
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