Were I to seek another’s muse
To spark a song or wit ignite,
A waif this wand’ring heart could choose
To prod this heathen pen to write,
She would be burdened, troubled with
Those dainty prints left pressed to tread --
The wonder of each lilac kiss
These spoiled lips were overfed.
For none as fair as she who trod
Upon this heart with love’s sick verse
Was ever born – and if the god’s
Conceived said-goddess, this her curse:
Unamused, she would die glancing
At my muse, her faults enhancing.
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