I chase Euterpe through a shadowed wood;
The lyric eludes me, and now the sun sinks low.
My arms outstretched, I jam a tree--no good!
The falling dark leaves me nothing to show.
Erato teases with her breathy sigh;
I glimpse her as if through a sheet of gauze:
Her full, seductive breasts, a naked thigh--
and then she runs. "Why, Goddess?" "Just because."
Frantic, I seek stately Calliope
To bless my poet's prayers. Still as a stone,
Memory's eldest daughter does not flee
But scatters like a mist. I am alone.
The girl I lust after always refuses.
Why should I expect different from the Muses?
1 comment:
I love this gallop through the muses as love objects. The concluding couplet is exactly on key. Nice light touch about a serious deprivation. Why ARE love and art so similar, and both so hard to do well?
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