As would a sister take her little brother.
She whispers words as sparkling as champagne,
As warm as blood, as pure as morning dew,
And so enchants me that I cannot help
But yield unto the tempting muse of song.
She takes me from the world’s drear, dusty road
And leads me into that mysterious park
Where lies the limpid lake of inspiration.
The flowers of life and death grow in this park—
Of love and hate, the flowers of joy and pain,