The Muse sings, in bars of song
Yet shall I cry, by the pen alone
Whether it shall be plunk of a string,
Or the to the toot of a horn
Bequeath my love in letters,
While yours in notes, shall you sound
Whilst I say to you, in ink and quill
Deafened, there you hum a tune
In the delight of your own sound
Drowned out is my calls for you