Psyche

All winter swung the gray cocoon
Wherein the life that was in swoon
Forgot the sun and stars and moon.
Yet long before the robins sing
Something without was shaping wing—
And wing against the coming spring.

The spinning worm that ceased to creep
Lay wrapped in an alchemic sleep
That wrought a mystery so deep,
Her nature and her shape dissolved
While life from shapeless mass evolved
The creature which the urge resolved.

While April wept her life away
And died with smiles to welcome May,
The potter finished with his clay.
The wings were ready for the spring—
Psyche emerged to faintly cling,
A feeble but a glorious thing.

Through tiny labyrinths began
Her strength to course, and span by span
Her wings unfolded like a fan.
Her membranes flushed as they unrolled,
From every dusty crease and fold
Drooped microscopic plumes of gold.

At first she trailed her noiseless skirt,
Then, with a flutter and a flirt,
She flew and found she took no hurt.
Across the fields she glanced away,
Forgetting sluggish yesterday
Where wingèd things delight to play.

Summer will find her in the bowers,
And she will shelter from its showers
Deep in the drooping domes of flowers.
And she will let a lover cling
In ecstasy with quiet wing,
And thus preserve the hope of spring.

And though in some autumnal dawn
Her golden shade desert the lawn,
How shall we say that she has gone?
When all her lilting life confirms
The hope of life in other terms
In cycles that have done with worms.