The Enduring Muse

by Jonathan Lovelace

Oh, why am I still moved to silence—tears—

By lines of poesy that my hand set down

So may months—or even years—ago?

When that strong passion held me in its grip

I boud its torrent ito metered verse,

Trying to find the words for what I saw,

But time soon stole it, like your presence, from me.

Now I but, listless, drift from day to day—

Yet when I read or think my words again

They grip me as the sight of you once did,

Or as a vivid dream holds fast my mind

when a too-early morning bids me wake.

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