In time of storied legend, when gods walked Luminously amongst their supplicants There dwelt a maiden fair, whose beauty mocked Love's mother, Venus, wellspring of romance. Her name Psyche, by form and wit she won Devotion of men, rich and poor alike Till at length she was cursed, and bound to one For Love's own arrow, Love himself did strike. So she lived with Love, and lost trust by trust's lack; Bereft, she sought by diligence to try To reunite, and did in slumber slack Receive her lord: A newborn butterfly. My sweet, I would for your sake labor her measure: May this year, and all succeeding, bring us Pleasure.