Muse

In my youth's years, she loved me,

I am sure.

The flute of seven pipes she gave in my

And harked to me with smile — without speed,

Along the ringing holes of the reed,

I got to play with my non-artful

The peaceful songs of Phrygian village singers,

And the important hymns, that gods to mortals bade.>From morn till night in oaks' silent shadeI diligently harked to the mysterious virgin;

Rewarding me, by chance, for any good decision,

And taking locks aside of the enchanting face,

She sometimes took from me the flute, such commonplace.

The reed became alive in consecrated

And filled the heart with holiness unceasing.