To Calliope, Chief of the Nine Muses
My muse sighs and leaves me unwell
and cuckolds me like faithless love
as if she's ne'er my god or belle,
afflatus or creative breath
who came from the summits above
to save me from poetic death!
"Why go, O Calliope!?" I yell;
her leaving brings about such woe
and inexpressible sorrow
that's too profound, too deep to tell:
I pray to Zeus I'll never know
this Melancholia of hell!
My muse sighs and takes leave of me,—
I yell, "Why go, O Calliope!?
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