The Muses all are silent for your sake:
While night and distance take
The hamadryad's hill, the naiad's vale,
Low droops the hippocentaur's golden tail,
And sleep has whelmed the satyrs in the brake.

Unplucked, the laurels stand as long ago;
The balms of Eros blow
Rose-red and secret in the cedars' pall. . . .
Do you forget, enchantress, or recall
The world you fashioned once, and now forgo?

Where, Venus-like from Lethe and the abyss,
Might rise the abandoned bliss;
Where the mute Muses bide your summoning word;
Where darkling faun and daemon drowse unstirred,
Waiting the invocation of your kiss.