The Muse Astray
ONCE in a land where memories throng,
By a far southern sea,
A poet sang a little song
Of rhythmic ecstasy.
By a far southern sea,
A poet sang a little song
Of rhythmic ecstasy.
He caught — or thought he caught —
the glow
Of rapt Italian vales,
The lustre of unstained snow,
The thrill of nightingales.
the glow
Of rapt Italian vales,
The lustre of unstained snow,
The thrill of nightingales.
And not alone it charmed the sense, Since on the theme was cast
The precious antique influence
Of a long, storied past.
The precious antique influence
Of a long, storied past.
“Now,” cried he, “for a magazine;
I’m puzzled as to which
My brilliantly word-painted scene
Most fitly shall enrich.”
I’m puzzled as to which
My brilliantly word-painted scene
Most fitly shall enrich.”
The dove returned; one tiny leaf
Dejectedly it bore.
The singer stood transfixed with grief.
Yet sent it forth once more;
Dejectedly it bore.
The singer stood transfixed with grief.
Yet sent it forth once more;
And back it came, and back, until —
So early trained to roam —
If one but gave the thing its will
The carrier song flew home.
So early trained to roam —
If one but gave the thing its will
The carrier song flew home.
MORAL
Be good, sweet muse, and wisely choose
Some fresher, homelier strain:
Shall Kalamazoo, Metuclien, too.
And Oshkosh sue in vain ?
Some fresher, homelier strain:
Shall Kalamazoo, Metuclien, too.
And Oshkosh sue in vain ?