What dark this hour,
The Muse doth call,
From the tower
And down the hall.
“Sleep ye not all ye poets mine
‘Til I have my time.
Lay ye restless on thy pillow
Lest ye take up thy quill, oh
Forget ye not thy parchment too
For ye shall have need of it ere I’m through.
“The hour, ‘tis late,” you reply.
“My parchment and quill have not I.”
”I pray, thee let me sleep
For surely it will keep
‘Til the morrow breaks anew
Then gleefully will I lend ear to you.”
“The morrow comes to late
For then I another date.
My time is fleeting precious gold.
For, like the earth, I am old.
Many a bard hath told my tale.
Many a voice hath not me failed,
To pass my message far and wide
Here and there through the countryside.
“I come not back again
Lest I know thee friend.
Keep thy quill and parchment handy,
For my visit ‘tis like candy,
Sweet for those who to it are open?
Yet gone to soon for those who shun
The hour at which I call.
I need not waste time at all.
“Muse, wait! I will my warm bed leave
If you will grant me a reprieve
I promise to your presence honor
If you must the next time bother
In early morrow or the night
Ere the sun’s first light
Call on me your earthly friend
To be your bard once again.”
The Muse has left ere the sun
To rise, a new day had yet begun.
Rest, Oh, Peaceful Sleep
Will soon come to this Keep.
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