Psyche Who is Mine

O, envy of a blooming rose, who hath

The bitterness of Aphrodite’s eye,

Thou art as ample in thine arcs as are

The apples of some yonder tree, and yet

Art thou more ripe than all of Eden’s fruit

And suppler still than China’s woven silk.

Proud Caelum’s daughter, stygian of will,

Once could entice all lovers to their beds

To give her off’rings with the taste of moans,

And heat so ardent that it weeps like fire    

But came the object of her wickedness,

And all intoxicated passion ceased

To witness beauty finer than the first:

For thou hast more dimension than the stars,

And lesser pleasure for their patent faults.

Reviews

[emipoemi]

(Shakespearean) poetry in motion. Grand imagery and a succulent melody. It might have done well to rhyme, but the blank verse I could tell as intentional and it does serve well in this case. Well done.