To The Muse; An Old-Fashioned Poem2 Poem by Morgan Michaels

You wrapped my hand inside your own
the leftward one that grips the lyre
fetched a dropp of lyric fire
spread the mead upon my tongue

Then did you my lips unchain
drew me closely to your knee
and dropped the seeds of harmony
into the furrows of my brain.

Said 'Yes, child, you shall die
but if these kernals come to root
and blossom, into early fruit
your name will with the phoenix vie.'

Then you pulled pods and cuttings sharp
of roses from your mountain height
that bloom in heaven's earliest light
wound the briars 'round my heart.

Said 'Though the burden of your woe
is hard, this nectar has a cost-
much is gained where much is lost,
thorn and blossom linked unto.'

Then often did you council me
told me stories at your feet
Time ran on, my eyes grew weak
youe feature could no longer see.

But now...