THE MUSE

By Luis G. Dato

Have you met her in the flesh, youth,
And did you keep yet your heart?
Fairer than the fairest flowers,
At her sight must Care depart.

For the sprite of spring had sent her,
Hands divine her beauty wrought,
Ne’er were youth’s fair fancy fairer,
Ne’er so crowned a poet’s thought!

Limbs of marble, perfumed tresses,
Were a painter’s wild despair,
And her merest glance, her golden
Voice did vanish worldly care.

Have you known her, did you linger,
For the mystery whence she came,
For the rose that brushed her foot-fall,
For the whisper of her name?

Down the valley, did you meet her,
Youth, and still your heart retain?
Many dawns shall pass to sundown,
Ere your paths should cross again.

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