To The Muse: An Old-Fashioned Poem3
But, oftentimes, beneath your tree,
at morning's blush or at the eve's
descent, your voice among the leaves
will flood my ears with poetry
And oftentimes will you suspend
in fingers dim a golden bowl
that holds the image of a soul
perfected at the journey's end.
Powerful Muse of living fame
who often leads us to the grove
in praise of wine, in praise of love
I bear my sorrows in your name.
Sip this blessing from my lips
Mother, dragon, husbandwife,
you, my muse, as dear as life:
for I am honored with your kiss.
And gladly bear from its imprint
a seething wound, a vivid brand
through which strange, quivering chords are sent
and secrets of the holy land!
poem by Morgan Michaels
Added by Poetry Lover
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