For a Muse


In song of movement does he reach

After the trailing silken sleeve

Caught by breath of questing mind

So fluttering sweetly to entice

His eager patience, wearing thin

Through desire for the ideal within

For the muse with face still unseen

Whether in brilliance or simplicity

And he in gambling for her hand

Blind choosing a single grain of sand

In hope eternal that she might be

A work of most exquisite beauty

© 2012, Elizabeth Cook

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