How lonely is the branch with no bird to give perch,

Wasted is the flower’s nectar when there is no bee,

And barren is the garden from disuse;

The tree under which the poet lies gives no shade,

So what use is his pen with none as its subject,

Tormented in knowing that,

Any verse is consigned to be whispered to naught but wind,

A quiet wind since it finds no leaves,

A song without her ears to hear it,

A rhapsody deflated, made impotent, and ineffectual;

What is a man without his muse.