To my Muse
The vast Parnassus never knew thy face,
O Muse of mine, O frail and tender elf
That dancest in a moonbeam to thyself
Where olives rustle in a lonely place!
And yet … thou hast a sort of Tuscan grace ;
Thou may'st outlive me ! Some unborn Filelf
One day may range thee on his studious shelf
With Lenau, Leopardi, and their race.
And so, some time, the sole sad scholar's friend.
The melancholy comrade of his dreams.
Thou may'st, O Muse, escape a little while
The none the less inevitable end:
Take heart, therefore, and sing the thing that seems.
And watch the world's disaster with a smile.
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