A LETTER TO PSYCHE
My soul,—I call you this—I come tonight
To send love's pleading message on its flight
Across the gulf of silence; and I dream
That it will find you by some sylvan stream;
That it will reach you ere the hand of fate
Has written the death-giving words, Too Late.
Have you forgotten all the golden past?
Was it too fair and beautiful to last?
Have I, at any moment, dearest one,
A single thing to hurt you, said or done?
If so, I would recall the word or deed,
And for your full forgiveness, dear, I plead.
The days are long without you, dear; so long
The hours between the dark and dawn! The song
You sang has melted to an undertone,
And shadows linger where the sunlight shone;
And darkness hastens, dear, to blight
The world you made so beautiful and bright.
Your dear, lost face smiles on me through a mist
Of tears; the hand that I so oft have kissed
Upon my shoulder rests; your witching eyes
Are on me, and I turn with glad surprise—
A dream? And is this all? And must all end
In nothing, and the dream to dust descend?
A man's life is the life his heart receives
From her he loves, in whom his soul believes;
Beyond her there is nothing more divine,
And, so, you were to me my faith and shrine:
To all things else I may have been untrue,
But never yet an infidel to you.
My heart, my soul's own soul, I come tonight
To send love's pleading message on its flight
Across the gulf of silence; and I pray
That love will guard and haste it on its way;
That it will reach you ere the hand of fate
Has written the death-giving words, Too Late.