O Wolf, I do not dread thee as of yore,
Time was when I would tremble in my shoes
At sight of thee—when lo! my pity’ng Muse
Brought me wherewith to drive thee from the door.
And since at last, O Wolf, my waning store
Has lured thee back, she will not now refuse
My invocation. So I cannot choose
But cry, “Help! Wolf!” that she may come once more.
Mine is a Muse that listens with disdain
To any call save that of appetite;