The Muse (poem)

When the sun filters through the airy clouds;
When the moon wears them as a heavenly crown:

An angel speaks to me
And colours what I say.
She lets me survey from the sky
How the ground beneath me lays.

I plunge my hand into her heart
And draw from there a well of art.
I paint the points behind my eyes
And cry until her gift is dried.

No one sees her and no one sees me,
A bizarre man's nest
In a solitary tree.
Drowning in the airy clouds
That float on freely.