Ode to Calliope (while looking at a painting and thinking of Isabel)

How often while sitting quiet,
Drenched by Thou, the light,
When i come home to You,
All the day's works, leaving aside, due,
I think of you, Isabel, mine,
Our Italian journeys, your smiles,
My childishness, my traveling miles,

And just, Justly then, O how You
The Beautiful Muse of All times,
How You i find, like a painting
Done many many years before
We were born, Isabel, before we met,
A painting done with so much of pains,
With so much of sweat and grit,
For days and nights sweeping through Him,
A mortal great, An immortal Painter,
Isabel, you perhaps know it better,
(Being a painter you, under Amadore's care)

Yes, Giovanni Baglione,
Calliope, The Greatest as worshipped
By our Poet, Dante Alighieri,
{Remember what once i told you
What Dante Alighieri wrote
In the first Canto, of His Divine Comedy(?)
Yes! at the Purgatorio,
He had been so much sure
'I am yours'
Didn't He write(?)}

O Calliope! How much Thou light
The darkest days mine, Bright!

Isabel, you know that too,
Being my love, so soft, a painter,
I am yours , Isabella mine,
For me, you are my poesy and painting Divine,
For me, you are my root, my balm,
For me, you are my birth, my calm,

And here, though, I am writing to you,
Isabel, comparing am i not you,
With that Greatest Muse,
Calliope had been for Dante, for Giovanni,
For Simon Vouet, surely, certainly,
All those mortal greats and immortal souls,
Not for me or for sweet heart you,

We are just lovers two,
You a painter, I a vagrant poet,
But still, will you say, is it really wrong
To worship you, as i do
Worship Calliope, time and again,
If i the Troubadeur one, find
Both Her, Urania and you, isabel,
Whenever i sit leaving aside
All my day's works, idling just,
Thinking of doing poesy,
Looking at a painting true,
Of Calliope holding a vine
In one hand and looking at the leaves
Of a book, She reading , So Divine.

(Note: the painting attached had been done by the famous Italian Painter Giovanni Baglione)