The muse of late has grown so bare,
Her naked limbs clothed but in hair
That flows about her naked knees
As she lies swooning under trees.
Or sliding naked down the night
Upon a flake of fairy light.
Or wandering naked by a pool
In evenings old, remote and cool,
That reading through her lines it seems,
Between her naked thoughts and dreams,
Her verse is so divinely bare
Of everything, there's nothing there.
First published in The Bulletin, 10 February 1921
