Alas! my honey is not always sweet.
Perhaps because the flowers of life are bitter.
Then I am harshly driven from this Eden
By the compulsion of a god I hate,
And I must go to work to win my bread.
The honey of the poet has no market.
Tempt me no more, dear Muse, or else I’ll starve.
IN THE LIBRARY
As she sat facing me the other day
Reading a book, while I was writing verses,