The Sick Muse

 My impoverished muse, alas! What have you for me this morning? 
Your empty eyes are stocked with nocturnal visions, 
In your cheek's cold and taciturn reflection, 
I see insanity and horror forming.
 
The green succubus and the red urchin, 
Have they poured you fear and love from their urns? 
The nightmare of a mutinous fist that despotically turns, 
Does it drown you at the bottom of a loch beyond searching? 

I wish that your breast exhaled the scent of sanity, 
That your womb of thought was not a tomb more frequently 
And that your Christian blood flowed around a buoy that was rhythmical, 

Like the numberless sounds of antique syllables, 
Where reigns in turn the father of songs, 
Phoebus, and the great Pan, the harvest sovereign.

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