To My Weeping Muse

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.