Dear muse, the sweetest of the potent nine, Whose fingers play upon the hearts of men Until their ardent chords respond again, Thrilling with love-lorn melody divine, Methinks I hear a tender note of thine Drift from the falling autumn leaves, and when The woodbine bares its scarlet face—ah! then I know that love has mocked the summer shine. Each chaliced blossom is a votive shrine Where nature spreads her fairest gifts for thee; Each dewy blade that sparkles on the lea A sacred reliquary crystalline That holds the secret of thy tender spell, And makes us love thee and thy numbers well. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE, MY LITTLE ONE' by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON EIGHTEEN-DOLLAR TAXI TRIP TO TIZAPAN AND BACK TO CHAPALA by CLARENCE MAJOR GIANT RED WOMAN by CLARENCE MAJOR HONEY DRIPPER by CLARENCE MAJOR IN WALKED BUD WITH A PALETTE by CLARENCE MAJOR SONG BY THE WINDOW BEFORE BED by KATHERINE MANSFIELD HYBRIDS OF WAR: A MORALITY POEM: 4. THE MORAL by KAREN SWENSON |