Concerning Lewis's book, Till We Have Faces
The tendr’st flow’r of joy, alas!
How feebly does it bloom! For I
Have nought of beauty’s fairest dress
That gilded grace that veils belie
One love have I to boast, of her
Who’s blest above the race of men
For her, whom gods will oft’ admire
Tis she, who is the flow’r of mine
Yes, joy exists in her embrace
In nowhere else will it be found
And in the pleasure of her face
And in the rapture of her sound
Yet cruel the gods are to our kind
We faceless, graceless, ugly, blind
They steal and hoard, and ne’er do leave
To us, the ones we ache to cleave
What right have they to break and part
The tendr’st bonds which men may cast
They pierce our hearts with golden dart
Then leave us b’reft alone at last
I cannot love these spiteful brutes!
Their power wielded cold and cruel
To rob us of the joys of youth,
The wretched aim, this, of their rule
Attend! Fair gods, then if you dare!
Your ears I beg for my complaint
To listen, answer, what I charge
I’ll tell it true, and without taint.
Coarse gods rent Psyche from my care
Ruined, savaged without repair.
What pretext can they spin at last
Faced with the stark truth of my case?
My scroll is writ, the die is cast
Will gods be pleas’d to show their face?
Barefaced and bold will I be heard
Unblush’d, to hear what gods may say!
Ne’er suspected without a word
They tore my final veil away.