with apologies to John Keats and his Ode to Psyche
O Goddess! hear these tuneless tones rung
By rough enforcement and remembrance drear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own ‘cicle-frosted ear:
Surely I imagined, or did I see
The winged Chione with awakened eyes?
I wandered in my gard’n thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, cursing with surprise,
Saw two dour creatures, couched side by side
In deepest drift, beneath the whisp'ring flakes
On leaves and barren branches, where there ran
An alabaster mound, scarce espied:
'Mid hushed, cold-rooted flowers with fragrance died,
Blue, silver, and budded Tyrian no more,
They lay dormant with the bedded grass;
Their arms embraced, and their pinions blue;
Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed Hypnos,
While ready to pass kisses unnumbered
With tender eye-dawn of Aurorean Spring:
The winged boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O frozen, fearsome dove?
His Chione true!