IN her hand the little lamp, and Mighty passion in her breast, Psyche creepeth to the couch where Her dear sleeper takes his rest. How she blushes, how she trembles, When his beauty she descries! He, the God of love, unveil'd thus, Soon awakes and quickly flies. Eighteen hundred years' repentance! And the poor thing nearly died! Psyche fasts and whips herself still, For she Amor naked spied. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THREE KINGS OF ORIENT by JOHN HENRY HOPKINS JR. UNTO US A SON IS GIVEN by ALICE MEYNELL THE FOUR WINDS by MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT MY SWEET LITTLE BABY, WHAT MEANEST THOU TO CRY? by WILLIAM BYRD |