I can hear my muse weep and sigh;
I just listen and don’t ask why.
Her touch feels like a burning fire
and it’s forever there to inspire;
she visits me in the cool of the morn
by the brooks where I was born.
There she reveals her magic powers
where I await amidst the leafy bowers;
there I repose by the babbling brooks
beyond the hamlet and ruined rooks
and write all day for my special Muse;
for if I write she will never refuse
to be my muse till I am dead,
when my poems will be well-read