The Enduring Muse
Oh, why am I still moved to silence—tears—
By lines of poesy that my hand set down
So may months—or even years—ago?
When that strong passion held me in its grip
I boud its torrent ito metered verse,
Trying to find the words for what I saw,
But time soon stole it, like your presence, from me.
Now I but, listless, drift from day to day—
Yet when I read or think my words again
They grip me as the sight of you once did,
Or as a vivid dream holds fast my mind
when a too-early morning bids me wake.
Back to Poetry.