I muse on muses that have come and gone
The inspiration I have loved and lost
Those whom I hate, then, some have still seemed fond
And others yet have sadly become sauced
Of all, not all, but still there were a few
I chose to leave in quiet tears of joy
The frost ne’er melts as if there were no dew
And others yet had never seemed so coy
Perhaps the day will come my way too soon
When I’ll be struck again by Cupid’s dart
If not by luck it surely will be doom
And yet again the Brain will yield to Heart
While free to write I find myself with use
I’ll stop again once I have found a muse
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem