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!