I offer up an honest, heartfelt plea
for you to understand, for you to see
that those to truly blame, of course, are Zeus
and his nine daughters – fickle offspring, whose
entreaties and delights have driven me
into the sweet embrace of poetry.
And every poet has his favourite muse:
“Erato! You bewitch me with your charms;
you tempt me, and then bind me with a spell
which slowly, surely, wraps me in your arms.
Erato! You have taught your pupil well.”
My mistress whispers that we should be wed–
those whispered words that make a marriage bed.