Poets receive powers from Muses to create the full range of emotions, but they are brief.
Inconstant Muse embellishing the mind,
With powers that create but also blind,
By this the hearts of poets rise above,
To realmless heights in search of distant love,
And snare it deep within their swelling breasts,
With care by which the eagle guards its nest.
This impulse that compels and tasks the brain,
Lives but briefly then is gone again,
The hearts of poets captured in a cage,
Shared with love and grief and bitter rage.
There lives no power yet to match your sway,
And ever will it do just as it may.