To Sweetheart Muse

Perhaps you thought me false to you,

     But I am not, my sweet;

I love your name, and you the same,

     Your dear poetic feet.

You have the same old mystic charm,

     That ever bound me fast;

And ‘neath your spell I fain would dwell,

     As in days long gone past.

Your license, too, I still admire,

     It’s helped me, oftentimes;

Ah, gentle maid, ‘twere bound to aid

     Me through my stubborn rhymes.

But dainty one, I must confess,

     Another holds me now;

A girlish face of queenly grace,

     And heavenly eyes, I trow.

And you are gently pushed aside

     To ope a place for her;

With air sedate accept your fate

     Without the least demur.

And now adieu, altho’ it gives

     Me pain from you to part;

But do not weep, for I will keep

     Your image fresh, sweetheart.

And yet, you are the one true maid,

     For greater poets say

With smiles alack, you take us back,

     Whene’er we go astray.

But dear neglected little muse,

     When wedded life grows cold,

I’ll seize my pen and woo again,

     As in the days of old.

Sept. 7, ‘96

Pub. in

Camb. Press,

Sept, 12,

   ‘96