When My Inconstant Muse Forsakes Me
When the muse forsakes me, my quill runs dry;
then songs of joy, of rhyme, of imagery
expire from my drained pen, though write I try,
as hollow strains dull my verse's symmetry.
How then to enthrall the faithless muse once more?
Her treason robs me of my coveted art.
What offerings, what good gifts, might restore
a bard against the whims of a muse's heart?
But love is long-suffering, and patient:
love waits, and forgives and does not take offense.
So, my heart still burns like an incandescent
flame for her. To restore her, no expense
shall be spared. Though my muse may seem distant,
her heart can ache for me yet in an instant!
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
