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You are my muse, and no one else will do.
Your eyes, your lips, your hands, your tresses gold
Inflame the senses, take captive, and woo
Th'imagination of this artist bold.
Now I hold your image pris'ner of th'eye,
Called when art's passion breaks free and takes flight;
The promise of your praise for which I vie
Becomes Olympus, upwards guides my sight
And drives me to the end, my work complete.
So like a mirror, art can but reflect
Th'image trapped within, with Truth complete -
The Origin, such words cannot perfect,
Yet with love will I hunt th'elusive dream
And so my art will glimpse your golden gleam.

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