MESEEMS I scarce could live, but for the Muse, My faithful mate who follows here and there O'er hills, fields, woods; and charms away my care With beauteous gifts, and all my woe subdues. If I am sad, I know no other ruse To conquer grief, but call my comrade rare, My Clio; straight she comes, and greets me fair And graciously, nor ever makes excuse. Would the nine Sisters might each season please To make my house with their fair gifts replete, Which rust can never spoil, nor frost, nor fire! Thyme blossoms not so sweet for honey-bees As their fair gifts upon my mouth are sweet, On which high minds may feed and never tire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SECRECY PROTESTED by THOMAS CAREW SEA POPPIES by HILDA DOOLITTLE THE POET AND THE BABY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR IN THE MILE END ROAD by AMY LEVY RETRIBUTION by FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU ODE TO SILENCE by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY SUMMER (2) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |