Richard St. Clair
Sins of the Sun
I wait impatiently and hope my muse
Will strike and cause my pen to move; across
The page it crawls, but only to confuse
Things, mingling the sublime art with the dross.
The day is quiet - now the warming sun
Shines through the window on my naked feet,
And though its course across the room is run,
My muse is withered in the lingering heat.
Inspiration comes more readily
To me, I feel, on cool and cloudy days.
I do not understand why this should be.
Who can tell me how this drama plays?
In sunlight, songs lie fallow in my head:
Must be because my muse has up and fled.
Page(s) 17
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