Where now the muse with fiery tongue Whose words lapped at the waiting brain, I cannot say if she has gone Or if she might deign to come again,
I only know that she was here And I but caught the trailing thread Of songs that touched the inner ear And held me fast when what she said
Was heard in the silence that now has fled. But surely I shall hear once more For poetry is never dead If soul knock at the inner door.
Poems Undated (1727)
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