My nighttime muse has left me so it seems,

Though passioned fire still smolders in my breast;

The silver moon lights up your face in dreams

To taunt my fervor with that visage blessed;

Black alchemy has turned my pen to lead —

And demons dark deny sweet voice of mind;

They swill the nectar that proud ardor fed,

Yet leave parched lips bereft of praise in rhyme?

I sit in silence, fettered by the night,

No will to lay my thoughts on paper down,

Your spirit dancing still within my sight

Where I entranced must languish ’til pale dawn;

Yet if my muse be gone, no more to see—

I’ll write in dreams ‘til she returns to me.