Oh sweet Erato, whither wanders thee?
Once fertile leas lay arid near the shore,
The ripened fruit now withers on the tree
And shadows linger ever at the door.
Did ancient Colchis summon thee by name
To strum a lyre and sing for Argonauts?
Wouldst Rhodius be aught of any fame
If not bestowed resplendent with your thoughts?
Or yet - perchance you ride a chariot,
Thru roses red and myrtle evergreen,
To find the place Leontichus was set
Eternally beside his love Rhadine?
        Oh sweet Erato, whither would you choose --
        Be free for e'er, or else to be a muse?