Spendest thy thought my temple to adorn.
Take better heed!’—And Psyche, at the voice
Even of so little comfort, gan rejoice,
And at her feet pour’d out this prayer forlorn.
12
‘O Gracious giver of the golden grain,
Hide me, I pray thee, from her wrath unkind;
For who can pity as canst thou my pain,
Who wert thyself a wanderer, vex’d in mind
For loss of thy dear Corè once, whenas,