It's Not With a Lover's Lyre The Muse کے بول

It's not with a lover's lyre, not at all That I go around, attracting a crowd It's the rattle with which lepers crawl That in my hands keeps singing aloud Where nothing is needed, I walk like a child My shadow serves as the friend I crave The wind breezes out of a grove gone wild And my foot is on the edge of the grave All that I am hangs by a thread tonight As I wait for her whom no one can command Whatever I cherish most-youth, freedom, glory Fades before her who bears the flute, in her hand