Through all the years and all the tears,
the crying's almost done.
The rain has passed, the Sun's come out,
and the blues are on the run.
Each tear stained note, put to rote,
is fading from the page.
A Renaissance of write, saw the light,
and ushered in a new age.
Words that rhyme, so sublime,
poetically form a song.
Tunes in the head, with words unsaid,
run through the mind all night long.
At morning light, tunes fade from sight,
must get them on the page.
The wisdom of the dream, in daylight seen,
is no longer sage.
The muse is fickle; it comes and goes,
must capture its delight.
Grab the words and lay them out,
naked in plain sight.
To form an epic so obtuse,
throw up hands, for what's the use.
The muse may come, and it may stay,
but tarnished words won't go away.
Hesiod Strolls with His Muse
Painting by the French artist
Edmond Aman-Jean (ca. 1860-1935)
Copyright 2007 © Ronald W. Hull