To The Muse

Why do I love thee more than my own life,
Even though this poet’s love be declined?
Lovely lady, thou has caused me much strife,
Yet to thy bidding still my heart’s resigned.
What then did I see that others have not?
‘Tis a virtue within thy pure bosom,
Though by age be taken shan’t be forgot,
By this steadfast poet’s blood and ransom.
Fair lady, my heart longs for that sweet day,
When fortune at last favors those who seek,
When with thee, running through the fields of May,
When at last I declare my love and speak.
Be patient then, O thy passionate heart,
From a distance shall thee practice thy art.

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