[Erato, the Muse of Poetry, by Sir Edward John Poynter]
Here I am now, and still waiting.
Will she ever come home again?
Will she bring those treasures she used
To bring always back here for me?
She will walk through that door once more
and offer me all those small gifts
she gives me in lieu of herself.
She will take me warm by the hand
and tell me all of her stories
as she once always used to do
before that door was closed to me
and all her world was shut away.
I have lost the power to call
To her. Lost the ability
To form the words to conjure her
Feel her presence and her sweet gifts.
She has gone far away from me,
Been gone for a very long time.
Gone away – now, perhaps – for good.