Image: Erato by Giuseppe Fagnini - courtesy Wikemedia Commons
Where too much of my poetry disapears into - darned Morpheus!
The Muse
She comes to me by night,
while I’m still half asleep;
stoops down beside my bed
to whisper softly in my ear
for my inspiration to meet
a line so perfect and neat,
that I will when once awake
copy down for all to hear,
but then sleep interferes;
so that when at daybreak
I no longer find her face;
as she has left and there
is nothing for me to make;
all is gone like melted snow,
leaving the line displaced,
and any memory hollow.
© D G Moody 2022
Poetry by D G Moody
Read 336 times
Written on 2022-04-01 at 16:45
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Griffonner |
|
Uncle Meridian |
|
AFRODITE STATHI |
|
D G Moody |
|
MetaPoetics |
