<h3><SPAN name="The_Sick_Muse" id="The_Sick_Muse"></SPAN>The Sick Muse</h3>
<p class="margin-b">
Alas—my poor Muse—what aileth thee now?<br/>
Thine eyes are bedimmed with the visions of Night,<br/>
And silent and cold—I perceive on thy brow<br/>
In their turns—Despair and Madness alight.<br/>
<br/>
A succubus green, or a hobgoblin red,<br/>
Has it poured o'er thee Horror and Love from its urn?<br/>
Or the Nightmare with masterful bearing hath led<br/>
Thee to drown in the depths of some magic Minturne?<br/>
<br/>
I wish, as the health-giving fragrance I cull,<br/>
That thy breast with strong thoughts could for ever be full,<br/>
And that rhymthmic'ly flowing—thy Christian blood<br/>
<br/>
Could resemble the olden-time metrical-flood,<br/>
Where each in his turn reigned the father of Rhymes<br/>
Phoebus—and Pan, lord of Harvest-times.<br/></p>
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