Classic Poem

O WAYWARD Muse! inconstant grown of late,
Why dost thou let thy watchful devotee
Hang up his foolish harp in idle state,
Above the stream of life on Care's sad tree?
Like those renowned captives of old date,
Upon the exiled shore of my mind's sadness
I grieve imagination so elate
Is forced awhile to leave its sunny gladness.
O holiday of fair creative power,
That sets the spirit on a wheel of joy,
And with the olive binds each passing hour!
O come again, methinks thou art too coy!
With greater zest after so long a dearth,
I shall enjoy thy wise immortal mirth.