I have to go to work to win my bread,

When oft upon my way the Muse of song,

Espying me from far approaches me

And takes me by the hand as tenderly

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,

Of smiles and sighs, of laughter and of tears,

The blooms of hope and those of disillusion.

All, all these flowers grow in this wondrous park.

I drink some water from the Muse’s palm,

The water of the lake of inspiration.

And then in silence do I wend my way

Through rows of silent and mysterious flowers,

Inhaling all the odors of the flowers,

The sweet and bitter odors of the flowers.

And like the bee, I also make some honey,

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.