'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead. Her presence, like the shadow of a wing That is just given to the upward sky, Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice, And for her step we listen, and the eye...
Lift up thine eyes, sweet Psyche! What is she That those soft fringes timidly should fall Before her, and thy spiritual brow Be shadowed as her presence were a cloud?...