“That is vanity, Psyche; that is vanity. . . .”
She uttered her jubilant cry, and hastened on with uplifted arms through the azure moonflames. The firmament spread out in higher circles and formed wider spheres;
The flames became clearer and clearer; more benignly blew the breeze;
And pale, the spirits flitted to and fro: pale shades with melancholy eyes, singing their song of painful remembrances. . . .
And the spirits looked at Psyche—the spirits smiled benignly on her, astonished that she was still alive.
They pointed for her to go on farther and farther; they nodded to her, “On! on!”
And she gave a loud cry of joy and hastened on. . . .
She sped through the flames and shades;
Till the flames were still, and high and white;
High, still, white flames, like sacrificial flames, like altar flames, high in the sky, the lofty sky, the wide sky; the wide expanse full of white flame, still, white, ascending, purifying flames, refined and clear, over the whole wide expanse, the wide refining expanse. . . .
