Come, show me that Muse
Or tell me where Helicon lies;
For there is neither to be found.
What worth is the poet’s use?
They write, rhyme, philosophize
What they feel, think, see. They sound
The depths and onto paper fuse
Their lives, lived out in ink and lines.
And when spent, what then may abound
But some fame to amuse,
A name, and some credit. But in times
To come, when they go back to the ground,
Of what worth was that Muse?
But for some, in half-remembered lines
Is where they died, and now, where they are found.