My Muse!

I breathe a breath that few men ever know!

My muse will blow her breath into my face,

So sweet the wind I breathe, that when she blows

I close my eyes; she draws me from my place.

 

The honeysuckle vines that sweet the air –

When roses or when lilies flood the sense –

Their odor of delight is not more fair

Than when my breath of muse would draw me hence.

 

So I delight that I may know her frame -

Convinced beyond all doubt that she is mine!

Though she would lisp and stutter through my name,

I, sitting at her table, sweetly dine.

 

Inspired I stand, and from my hills of mead

Sweet odors waft, and from it, arts proceed.