Look, sweet, how soft the petals curl!
A name!—and thou shalt have them all.
While Love thus urged his pretty suit,
And to the blushing girl drew near,
He softly struck his golden lute,
As Psyche sat, entranced and mute,
Drinking the sounds with willing ear.
And when the golden lute was hush’d,
And Love still nearer drew, to seek
His usual meed from lips that flush’d