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Robert Laurence Binyon - Psyche
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She is not fair, as some are fair,
 Cold as the snow, as sunshine gay:
 On her clear brow, come grief what may,
 She suffers not too stern an air;
 But, grave in silence, sweet in speech,
 Loves neither mockery nor disdain;
 Gentle to all, to all doth teach
 The charm of deeming nothing vain.

 She joined me: and we wandered on;
 And I rejoiced, I cared not why,
 Deeming it immortality
 To walk with such a soul alone.
 Primroses pale grew all around,
 Violets, and moss, and ivy wild;
 Yet, drinking sweetness from the ground,
 I was but conscious that she smiled.

 The wind blew all her shining hair
 From her sweet brows; and she, the while,
 Put back her lovely head, to smile
 On my enchanted spirit there.
 Jonquils and pansies round her head
 Gleamed softly; but a heavenlier hue
 Upon her perfect cheek was shed,
 And in her eyes a purer blue.

 There came an end to break the spell;
 She murmured something in my ear;
 The words fell vague, I did not hear,
 And ere I knew, I said farewell;
 And homeward went, with happy heart
 And spirit dwelling in a gleam,
 Rapt to a Paradise apart,
 With all the world become a dream.

 Yet now, too soon, the world`s strong strife
 Breaks on me pitiless again;
 The pride of passion, hopes made vain,
 The wounds, the weariness of life.
 And losing that forgetful sphere,
 For some less troubled world I sigh,
 If not divine, more free, more clear,
 Than this poor, soiled humanity.

 But when, in trances of the night,
 Wakeful, my lonely bed I keep,
 And linger at the gate of Sleep,
 Fearing, lest dreams deny me light;
 Her image comes into the gloom,
 With her pale features moulded fair,
 Her breathing beauty, morning bloom,
 My heart`s delight, my tongue`s despair.

 With loving hand she touches mine,
 Showers her soft tresses on my brow,
 And heals my heart, I know not how,
 Bathing me with her looks divine.
 She beckons me; and I arise;
 And, grief no more remembering,
 Wander again with rapturous eyes
 Through those enchanted lands of Spring.

 Then, as I walk with her in peace,
 I leave this troubled air below,
 Where, hurrying sadly to and fro,
 Men toil, and strain, and cannot cease:
 Then, freed from tyrannous Fate`s control,
 Untouched by years or grief, I see
 Transfigured in that child--like soul
 The soiled soul of humanity.
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