The Sicks Muse
My wretched muse, what does the morning bring?
Dream visions haunt your eyes, and I discern,
Reflected in the shadings of your skin,
Madness and horror, cold and tacitum.
Have they - green succubus and rosy imp -
Poured on you fear and love out of their urns?
Has nightmare with his proud unruly grip
Sunk you within some fabulous Minturnes?
I'd wish your breast to breathe the scent of health,
Your mind to think great thoughts the whole day long,
Your Christian blood to flow in waves that scan
With varied sounds of ancient syllables,
Where reign in turn the father of all song,
Apollo, and the harvest-lord, great Pan.
Přeložil James McGowan