When I muse on thee, o' lord of bards
Sitting stilledly among the plume of orchard trees;
When in a bough a feathered enchantress shards,
The quiet with her lustreous song in ease.
With a quill in hand and Journal, emblem
Thine patron knee, and your wizard mind begins,
To snatch the song from the scented realm.
And reading there I find, a dimension of ink devine.
'Bashing senses in a whirl of a deeper spell.
Happiness in o'erwhelm I partake, I beseech ye tell!
Tell by whisper in mine ear, how thy can so weave!
Not hemlock, opiate, nor sorrow sweet, beauty in it all!
To walk through Nymphed trail, and down greened hall;
Someday may may aged ashes the treasured ground
where bard met Dryad, and man, nightingale's song.