Psyche in the Temple of Love
Our lips first touched secretly in the grove
Its taste was that of the honeysuckle
Together our young unskilled hearts we wove
A tender spring love was born in April
There is a great fear now that it is May
Since that sunny day his eyes I’ve not seen
Has he forgot promises on that day
That not another heart shall come between
Coaxing the butterfly to seek him out
The agony in my heart he must know
My love for him there is not any doubt
The fire in my heart can melt winter’s snow
Here praying that I’m not a childish fool
Being in love can be mean and cruel
Image credit:
Edward John Poynter, Psyche in the Temple of Love (1882)
I was enchanted by your description of the “tender spring love,” and Poynter’s exquisite “Psyche” accentuates its romantic charm!
Regrettably love is often a waiting game, one that tears at one’s heart causing great pain