Muses, I oft invoked your holy aid, With choicest flowers my speech to engarland so That it, despised in true but naked show, Might win some grace in your sweet skill arrayed; And oft whole troops of saddest words I stayed, Striving abroad a-foraging to go, Until by your inspiring I might know How their black banner might be best displayed. But now I mean no more your help to try, Nor other sugaring of my speech to prove, But on her name incessantly to cry: For let me but name her, whom I do love, So sweet sounds straight mine ear and heart do hit That I well find no eloquence like it. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL by ROBERT BROWNING THE IDEA OF BALANCE IS TO BE FOUND IN HERONS AND LOONS by JAMES HARRISON BOSTON COMMON: 1774 by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND by ANDREW MARVELL THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 97. A SUPERSCRIPTION by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE AGE OF WISDOM by WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY AT FAREWELL by GEORGE W. BERGQUIST |