Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoined by soft handed slumber,
And ready still, past kisses to outnumber,
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
The winged boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true!
O latest born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phœbus sapphire-regioned star