 | Poems by Rose Terry |  |
129
PSYCHE TO EROS.
Survive, O Love, this sad estate;
Why shouldst thou with the sunshine fly?
Hast thou no more enduring date
Than out of one despair to die?
The fiercest tempest only brings
At worst a drenching to thy wings.
Why shouldst thou with the sunshine fly?
Hast thou no more enduring date
Than out of one despair to die?
The fiercest tempest only brings
At worst a drenching to thy wings.
Thou art not such a mortal thing,
That any agonies of pain,
Which from thy trampled offerings spring,
Can crush thee into dust again.
Look with clear eyes, and lift thy head,
Bruised, wounded, bleeding, but not dead.
That any agonies of pain,
Which from thy trampled offerings spring,
Can crush thee into dust again.
Look with clear eyes, and lift thy head,
Bruised, wounded, bleeding, but not dead.
Not dead,—there lives no mortal hand,
However mighty, strong as thou;
No human malice ever planned
A shadow that could soil thy brow.
Crowned with thy sure divinity,
Arise and reign; the shadows flee!
However mighty, strong as thou;
No human malice ever planned
A shadow that could soil thy brow.
Crowned with thy sure divinity,
Arise and reign; the shadows flee!
| Poems by Rose Terry | |