You ask me why love-elegy so frequently I follow,
And why my little book of tender trifles only sings:
It is not from Calliope, nor is it from Apollo,
But from my own sweet lady-love my inspiration springs.

If in resplendent purple robe of Cos my darling dresses,
I'll fill a portly volume with the Coan garment's praise;
Or if her truant tresses wreathe her forehead with caresses,
The tresses of her queenly brow demand her poet's lays.

Or if, perchance, she strike the speaking lyre with ivory fingers,
I marvel how those nimble fingers run the chords along;
Or if above her slumber-drooping eyes a shadow lingers,
My tranced mind is sure to find a thousand themes of song.

Or if for love's delightful strife repose awhile be broken,
Oh! I could write an Iliad of our sallies and alarms;
If anything at all she 's done — if any word she's spoken —
From out of nothing rise at once innumerable charms.