the evening rose


How much have I troubled you, O my muse!
Neither to myself nor to you giving rest
Claiming each time amidst my writings huge
That what I write this time, will be my best

While reading my various works, big or small
Which will last longer, though I can’t surmise
Each of them appears to me best of all
As flowers of different colors, scent and size

Yet I must produce works of such varied kinds
Amidst taste changing from age to age
That every one, some feelings of his liking finds
Fulfilling high expectations that my poems raise

Hence my muse, be kind and stay with me each time
I get some flash of thoughts, some ideas’ urge sublime