The voice,
Soft and timeless,
Without descriptive tone,
Which speaks into my inner ear,
Which leaves me choice,
Though often mindless,
More of a painful moan,
Than sound of pleasant cheer.
What speaks it here,
With ethereal sounds,
That haunt my every day?
What whisper in my inner ear,
Like distant baying hounds,
Whose braying I obey?
'Tis the Muse itself,
That stray delight,
Which plays upon my mind.
Brings down from ancient shelf,
In the middle of the night,
Those words we pen in kind.
She sings in Summer's soft refrain,
She cries in Winter's bitter bain,
She laughs in Spring time's golden hue,
She laughs at me...and you...