I can see and hear my Muse weep and sigh;
silent, I just listen and don\'t ask why.
Her tears flow and glisten as if on fire,
though she\'s forever willing to inspire;
she visits me in the cool of the morn
by the brooks and bowers where I was born;
there (she displays and works her faerie powers)
where I await amidst the leafy bowers;
I lie in repose by the babbling brooks
beyond the hamlets and the ruined rooks
and write all day for her, my sobbing Muse.
For if I write she will never refuse
to be my weeping Muse till I am dead,
when my poems one day will be well-read.