In her hand a little lamp-light,
In her breast a mighty flame,
Sidles Psyche to the bedside
Where the sacred sleeper lays.
She is blushing, she is shaking
As his prettiness she sees
The unclothed God of Loving;
He awakes and off he flees.
Eighteen-hundred year atonement!
And the poor thing dies anon.
Psyche fasts and self-chastizes
'Cause she saw Love in the Raw.
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