I am the Muses' friend: I consign all grief
And fear to violent winds on the Cretan sea,
Utterly untroubled by threats besetting
Some exiled tyrant,
By kings who are feared in the far icy north.
O sweet muse, who delights in the purest springs,
Come bind these sun-filled flowers and weave a crown
For my Lamia.
Without you, muse, all praise of me is nothing:
So it's all fitting that you and your sisters
Should consecrate it with these fresh strings and a
Plectrum from Lesbos.
Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Ancient Fire