It is Psyche that sits in her chamber,
With windows that follow the sun;
By the west, where the ivies clamber,
She sits when the day is done,
All alone;
And her eyes grow sad to remember,
Looking pitiful toward the sun.
But bright with the morning-glories
Is the look of the eastern way;
And the Prince of the fairy-stories,
The lover so gallant and gay,
(Well a day!)
Is to come with the sunrise glories;
Tomorrow is well on the way.
So she turns from the dying splendors,
She looks to the morning-gate;
O the whispers the star-deeps lend her,
As she leans to listen and wait!
"Lo, my fate!"
And one that is vainly tender
Prayeth her, early and late.
Safe under her eyelids closing
She hideth the welcome-sheen;
"It is but a night's reposing,
But dream and a silence between."
Ah, between!
It is silence spreading and closing,
And an ever-beginning dream.
The prince of the golden feather,
He tarrieth far away;
Through sunny and stormy weather
She wearies of fond today.
Well a day!
Always and always together--
Tomorrow is long on the way!
Who waits in the dawning lonely,
When the lattice is drawn apart?--
Ah, love him a little, if only
For pity of thy own heart--
Foolish heart!
In the watch that heareth the lonely,
In the love that is sorrow and smart.
Nay, out of her ashes of sorrow
Hope soareth, day after day,
And the pitiful eyes will borrow
New light from the eastern way--
Far away;
But they will never look on Tomorrow;
Tomorrow is dead on the way!
