To Mrs. Corbett
In other days when love was king,
Betimes I learned to woo,
And whoso asked me then to sing,
Could have a stave or two.
But now my Muse is lumpish grown,
And laughs at Cupid's token,
And my poor heart—'tis but a stone,
So hard—though often broken.
Thus as I pondered deep to-day,
And for invention panted,
My Muse grew bright as any fay,
Enchanting and enchanted!
And from her lips such music stole,
As never on this orb yet
Was heard, I cried: “My Muse! my soul!”
My Muse! 'Twas Mrs. Corbett.
Betimes I learned to woo,
And whoso asked me then to sing,
Could have a stave or two.
But now my Muse is lumpish grown,
And laughs at Cupid's token,
And my poor heart—'tis but a stone,
So hard—though often broken.
Thus as I pondered deep to-day,
And for invention panted,
My Muse grew bright as any fay,
Enchanting and enchanted!
And from her lips such music stole,
As never on this orb yet
Was heard, I cried: “My Muse! my soul!”
My Muse! 'Twas Mrs. Corbett.
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