Psyche Singing

I sit here in the room before my mirror,
Braiding up my hair,
And taking it down again.
Am I, am I, am I not fair?
And there was no lack of men
To woo me, until in spite
Venus sent her son one night.

He spilled the drops upon my lips,
Spilled them there,
Drops of aching bitterness.
Then upon my spread hair
He scattered the drops of bliss.
And now I sit in this my room,
Wrapping my beauty up in gloom.

They turned to me with fairest flowers,
Because I was pretty,
And I smiled and smiled.
My beauty was better than pity,
For I knew nothing; like a child
I moved through the world, innocent,
And healed and brought joy where I went.

But Venus could not bear it- from her altars
They came to gaze.
She determined to repay
Me for all the bitter days,
To take my chances at love away.
Yet her son spilled also the drops of joy,
Cupid in his shock, that winged boy.

I sit here in the room before my mirror, 
Braiding up my hair
And taking it down again.
Am I, am I, am I not fair?
But now I long for no other men.
I looked up into Cupid's eyes,
And behind the burgeoning surprise

I am convinced that I saw love.
So I am waiting,
Braiding up my hair,
The simple motions largely hating.
But I have heard Venus declare
Me unfit for mortal company.
Might I not a divine lover long to see?