The muse

In my infancy she loved me

And presented me with a septuple-barrelled pipe;

She harkened to me with a smile, and faintly

Upon the resonant holes of hollow reed

I was already playing with feeble fingers

Both solemn hymns, inspired by gods,

And Phrygian shepherds' peaceful songs.

From morning `till evening, in the mute shade of oaks,

I diligently harkened to the lessons of the secret maiden;

And, gladdening me with a chance reward,

Brushing away the locks from her lovely brow,

She, herself, would take the reedpipe from my hands.

The reed would be brought to life by divine breath

And fill the heart with holy charms.