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Rated: E · Poetry · Fantasy · #2154008
A short, simple and lyrical poem imitating the poets of the English Romantic era.
I can see and hear my Muse mourn and sigh;
silent, I just listen and don't ask why.

Her woe benumbs her true, intense desire,
though she's forever willing to inspire.

Tho' sad, she finds me in the cool of morn
by the brooks and bowers where I was born;

there she alights and works her faerie powers
in, around, and amidst the leafy bowers.

As I lie reposed by the babbling brooks
beyond the hamlets and the ruined rooks,

I write all day for her, my loyal Muse:
For if I write she will never refuse

to be my faithful Muse till I am dead,
when after this my poems will be well-read.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2154008