Mother of the tuneful Nine, <br />Nature prompt my ev'ry line; <br />I would not, had I Homer's fire, <br />To Mars and Slaughter strike the lyre; <br />A dearer theme my bosom fills, <br />My veins a softer rapture thrills; <br />Love, I know thy honied sting, <br />And the flutter of thy wing; <br />In my heart thou sitt'st supreme, <br />Making life a lover's dream, <br />Full of visions angel bright, <br />Till awakening in delight, <br />Tremulous I touch the strings; <br />'Tis not I-'tis Cupid sings.<br /><br />Peter John Allan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anacreontic-3/
