Classic Poem

The Muses love me, and I am content,
For naught to me is either grief or fear;
The winds will sweep them into banishment,
The sea will drag them to a briny bier.
Let others quail and, trembling, force the tear,
And cringe, with looks that on the ground are bent;
Let all the angry powers of earth appear,
The Muses love me—and I am content.
What though the days of joy are only lent,
What though the skies are overcast and drear;
I care not if the thundering heavens be rent,
For naught to me is either grief or fear.
Come then, bright-hearted nymph from brooklets clear,
A garland for my Lamia weave; nor vent
Thy proud disdain upon my verses here—
The winds will sweep them into banishment.
O, come with perfumed words from Venus sent
And twine a golden couplet for our cheer.
(Mind not the cares that mar our merriment;
The sea will drag them to a briny bier).
Attune my strings and so, for many a year,
Singing of thee I will be diligent;
And even when the leaves of life are sere,
One thought will cheer me when all else is spent:
The Muses love me .