The Sick Muse (La Muse Malade)

Oh, my poor muse, what afflicts you this dawn?
Morbid visions have taken command of your gaze
By turns I see cast on your face, pale and drawn,
Madness and horror, ennui, and malaise.

Did the green gremlin and rouge-spattered faun
Empty out love and alarm from their urns?
Have all your nightmares revolted, with sabers drawn?
Banishing you to the depths of Minturn?

I wish for you vigorous breath to exhale
Your breast ever buzzing with every detail
Your fervent blood coursing in metrical waves

Calling forth stanzas from the ancients’ graves
Ruled by Apollo, the father of rhyme
And great god Pan, the lord of the harvest time!

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