Interlude

STYGIAN ZEUS:

"I refuse the vile change of mine,
My powers are not to be thine,
Surrender not my youthful flame,
Will I to your bitter-black grape-wine."

Study on Colour: Verdant the fields of Eden, Op. 14

Verdant the fields of Eden,
As so gracefully, gracefully then,
Swayed the fine scarlet-rose petals,
That tinted the mead so fair red,
Adorning the rosy meadow bed.
There ever rising, the golden sun,
Shone with gilt-adorn'd lustre,
Upon the unrivall'd rosal cluster,
That ended in one ever-green forest.
Like towering crowd it proudly stood,
All grey and green the lofty wood,
Its vast trunks and leaves introducing,
Until the fine white gossamers,
Of multitude of small web-spinners,
Made way till much deeper nature.
And from within the mossy verdure,
A mountain rivulet, pure streaming,
Emerged from some forgotten pond,
Which then with all azure lur'd,
Attracting the beings most abhor'd.

Unpleasant reflections: Thousand worlds better to live... Op. 13

Thousand worlds better to live,
Sprawls the whole universe;
Fool's the man who finds the one,
Worse off who as a dog his life began;
And still better's the choleric hound,
Scrambling for food in desolate mound;
Yea! Great's the envy when he sights,
Astral deva which now this plane alights,
Organising the matters with kind panache,
In merciful providence of starry nights!

Or, other version:

Thousand worlds better to live,
Sprawls the whole universe;
Fool's the man who finds the one,
Ill-fated whose life as dog began;
More fortunate's even the choleric hound,
Scrambling for food in desolate mound;
Yea! And great's the envy when we do sight,
Astral deva that now this plane does alight,
Organising his matters with kind panache,
With merciful providence of star-lit night

Unpleasant reflections: Women! What need have you of man's touch... Op. 12

Women! what need have you of man's touch,
when yourselves on scarlet coach lying,
can each other with pleasure fill,
In countless ways can man but will,
and dream on; of feline grace that he,
likewise as dusk follows day - can never be,
And for that suitor her attention vying,
I wonder much, what dark delusion,
Does his head possess, as thinks he that her,
himself the most pleasing did envision,
Nay! fear not, the decision but were,
As always, motivated by nature's stark request,
'Kindly consider, the vigour that doth bequest.'

Comments: Oh man... why did you write this...

Unpleasant reflections: Flee mortal! For the angel of death... Op. 11

Flee mortal! for the angel of death,
Though your life be young, has claimed
Your youthful flame, and little will avail,
Your loves squandered in vain, or bravery,
In the face of the pain - nay! Flee mortal!
For both young and old, thorough her hallowed portal
Into some bewitched crowd are driven,
And lo! both proud and modest, their crimes forgiven,
Under her winterly shroud you distinguish not
And like an unhuman slave, shoved into garrote,
It ends. Oh Fools! The relief we gambled away!
Is it only the finest, who neither laugh back nor cry,
But mirror behind, the sight of the angel, in the resigned eye?

Spring of Life, Op. 10

In the midst of that swirling black madness,
escaping from the hidden crevices on the bottom
of the cauldron of Hell, ashes and dust the colour
of thunderclouds mix with the pallid waters.
Poison and corruption itself seem to seep
through this abyssal rift; the heat is immense,
no creation of light could stand - and none do -
only the works of alternate night and day
persist and proliferate. Encircling this black
sun, a hollow tower, like a chimney, spirals
upwards alongside a plume of smoke; here,
the flora of night inhabit their natural estates.

A garden of bizarre colours, a multitude
of eccentries, this writhing mass horrors is
thickest - most myriad - besides the tower.
Moving outwards, the wisps of life grow sparse -
and greater! The societies of inner circle pale
before the nameless monstrosities of outer waters,
until, like everywhere, the greatest beasts grow lonely...
And where the memory of the heat grows weak,
no sign of life is to be seen: this fount of life
only a faint whisper.

Blue Sonnet, Op. 8

That those endless hardships so would reward,
That some meaning from that black taste I would discern,
I could not expect, nor my state vile regard,
With much anguished notion; nor in vain recompense yearn,
If from my sepulchre one final glance I could purloin,
And till that ideal sight my wounded visage turn,
No regrets would then hinder my scarred way,
Nor temptation now lead my path astray,
Thus thinking I arised from my newly-found grave,
And sought that spring-like sight to enslave,
Till my eyes met those of that fair divine
And oh! how she beheld me keenly, creation of sublime!