Where art thou Muse, that thou forget’st so long?
O truant Muse, amend thy wrong!
My love is strengthened, though weak it seems,
Alack! How poor the Muse—in dreams.
To me, fairy friend, you never can grow old,
For time itself cannot your worth withhold.
Let not my love be called idolatry,
It blooms in truth, in memory-free.
When in the chronicle of wasted time,
I trace your face in every rhyme.
Not mine own fears, nor prophetic soul,
Shall break the bond that makes us whole.
What’s in the brain that ink may character,
But tracings of love, each line a harbinger.
O never say that I was false of heart,
For shame denies love’s truest art.
For love and pity doth impressions fill,
A tender force, both fierce and still.
Through enchantress’ chants and beast roars,
Love’s light endures—forever soars.
WoPoLi 
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