Excuse Me, Muse

'Tis not the hour to sing of pink-hued vapors So softly sailing under azure skies; Nor of the shadow warm and so mysterious Cast by the lashes of a woman's eyes.

'Tis not the time for soft euphonious sighing And holding converse with pale lunar light. 'Tis not the hour for musing and for dreaming, Excuse me, Muse, I must go out and fight.

And I will fight as long as infants suckle In vain at parched breasts devoid of milk; As long as my poor sisters sell their bodies For bread and rags, while parasites wear silk.

As long as slave and master, thief and pauper Remain such terms as may to man apply, So long, I say, my lyre shall be a weapon, My song shall be the rebel's battle cry.