A snail's life

Psyche, so fair, thou art asleep, So calm and deep Thy slumber seems, Surely thy happy eyes will weep If Love awake thee from thy dreams.

Were it not better to be blind To things behind The world of sense, Than, waking from a dream, to find Love’s terrible omnipotence?

Holding thy very heart in fief— A crimson leaf His breath may blow, A ruby cup of joy or grief, Which for his lips must overflow.

Are not thy dreams a garden bright, Full of delight And summer bliss? And will not Passion sear and blight Its beauty with his burning kiss?

Perchance, perchance,—and yet I know That pang and throe Thou wilt forgive To love who teaches even so Thy blood to flow, thy heart to live.

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Psyche

Ronald Campbell Macfie  1867-1931

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