The young poet invoked a Muse before beginning his ode.

She mused over the old photographs, remembering how carefree their summers had been.

At dusk, the Muses whispered ideas to the tired poet, and he finally found the words he had been seeking.

Her musefulness turned ordinary afternoons into quiet, radiant moments of inspiration.

She sat by the window, museful and distant, watching the rain trace patterns on the glass.

She smiled musingly as she traced the old map with her finger.