To The Muse; An Old-Fashioned Poem 1 Poem by Morgan Michaels

Swans were passing-foolish I
burned to fly and with them soar-
beat my limbs till they were sore
but rose no closer to the sky.

Harkening to their fading choir
Hope quick Anger turned into-
still to the horizon flew
those gorgeous minions of desire;

till they passed beyond my ken:
then did I, on either hand
curse the heavens, curse the land
wept and wailed the lot of man

Who falls behind his striving heart
and tumbles in the dust, alas,
the body's fabric at the last
dissolved, to prove his mortal part.

But high within your mountain lair
you heard my weeping, saw my tears
and knowing them rare and quite sincere
leapt up high and rode the airs.

Strode the winds and sailed the sea
the earth beneath your sandal heel
took print, until discovering me
cynical, beside a well,

You set your hands upon my head,
drew me backwards by the hair
hissed and whispered in my ear,
alternately threatened, pled.

I shrank in terror-terrified
to gaze upon your loveliness-
you breathed into my nostrils breath
that soul and body soon revived.

You took my...