Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836–1907)

NOW if Euterpe held me not in scorn,

I ’d shape a lyric, perfect, fair, and round

As that thin band of gold wherewith I bound

Your slender finger our betrothal morn.

Not of Desire alone is music born,

Not till the Muse wills is our passion crowned:

Unsought she comes, if sought but seldom found.

Hence is it poets often are forlorn,

Taciturn, shy, self-immolated, pale,

Taking no healthy pleasure in their kind,

Wrapt in their dream as in a coat of mail.

Hence is it I, the least, a very hind,

Have stolen away into this leafy vale,

Drawn by the flutings of the silvery wind.