| Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867. | | | | I. Euterpe | | By Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836–1907) |
| | | NOW if Euterpe held me not in scorn, | |
| I ’d shape a lyric, perfect, fair, and round | |
| As that thin band of gold wherewith I bound | |
| Your slender finger our betrothal morn. | |
| Not of Desire alone is music born, | 5 |
| Not till the Muse wills is our passion crowned: | |
| Unsought she comes, if sought but seldom found. | |
| Hence is it poets often are forlorn, | |
| Taciturn, shy, self-immolated, pale, | |
| Taking no healthy pleasure in their kind, | 10 |
| Wrapt in their dream as in a coat of mail. | |
| Hence is it I, the least, a very hind, | |
| Have stolen away into this leafy vale, | |
| Drawn by the flutings of the silvery wind. | | | | |
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