Around, the fiery source of life spins,
Once more, eradicating all the sins,
From the night which has come- then,
Gone; like a mothers warm hand, when
Plunged into water seemly to baptize
Away the sleep from her child’s eyes.
I turn as with the sun, toward the fable,
Mount Helicon, where many a label,
A measured beat, and a lovely tone,
Where many a doting poet came alone,
To catch sight of one of those sisters,
Bathing, singing and telling in whispers,
Of beauteous stories of ancient past,
Or offering inspiration to those who asked.
But those nine of the Lord of Thunder
I no longer seek blindly in wonder.
For my muse comes within my mind;
She with grace and, beauty hard to find,
Prances playfully in that sacred stream
Solely by herself, and radiates a gleam
Of tremendous visions, of happy scenes,
Of all the joys possessed within human beings,
And further, gifts wondrous coloured hue
To anything I wish to with leisure view.
Whether it be the trees swaying by the hedge,
If it be the roses growing around the ledge,
On some family home that know not I gaze;
Or even if those same winds which blaze
Upon the savage shores, wreak destruction,
Cause turmoil and tumult and deadly confusion;
I am able to speak in such tender lays,
For she presents them with her calming rays
Of ivy strokes, and of gentle meadows kiss,
For I eternally thank my delicate muse for this.