I am finished with being a muse –
The victimized wet-dream of art
Who, slowly turning on a dais
Raised on superficial planks,
Will soon be a forgotten toy
That once loved, now has lost its charm,
And crushed into a corner waits
Till memory renews its rank.

The gods can have this blessing back.
I'll mar my face and tear my hair
And burn my robe and crown of gold
And wade in mud up to my knee,
Or suffer cows and sweat for milk,
Or brave a sea of mug and chair.
Oh, silver platter-washing, I
Would gladly be ordinary!

Yet, bar-girls also have to feign
And feint from lofty thoughts of He.
And milkmaids, too, are often set
Upon a stool above their wish.
From scullery to cloudless mount,
If privy parts inverted be,
You serve the wielder of the wand,
Obliged to lie down as his dish.