European Elegies/Autumn (1)/My tragic muse
6.MY TRAGIC MUSE
Alas, your lovely fingers touched A tragic lyre:To veil your sad lament in verse My lines aspire.
There in faint quaverings of fear Your low voice grieves,Like a night wind through withered flowers And fallen leaves;
Until in darkness side by side Once more we sleep,And whisper to each other still, And mutely weep.
From the Romaic of Miltiades Malacassis.