When in cavernous grounds you seek asleep... Op. 24

When in cavernous grounds you seek asleep,
Think of those who in their slumbers deep,
Once went ahead with their dreamy drear,
And ventured deeper and deeper, without our fear.
O' Think of me when laying down, and think of her,
Who once like statue stood in her unshown bliss,
Right where you now bless your pillows with a kiss,
And she too there, thought of those who had stood before.
O' Ye, who in these grounds' cavernous deeps,
Once more make space for your pillow's rest,
And sighing lay aside all your burdens blest,
O' Think before you dream, ye slumberous sleeps.

Study on Colour: Long jutting jaws of the beast... Op. 23

Long jutting jaws of the beast,
Like obsidian towers arise from darkness,
Glimmering and fading in the pale moon-light,
Appear and disappear, like antechambers of night.
Standing high above, up close to the stars,
Now looking down from your triumphant arch,
Something beneath you gazes back from dark,
Far below the mirages and dancing-dreams,
Apparitions of black spiderweb streams,
The glint of evening star, a street-lamp,
Seen through perpetual pour of chilling rain,
That here dims the vision down the urban plane.
Here, the dream to sleep eternal
Well survives in the windowless wards,
That fill the apartments in coal-black shards,
Rising to meet the sky where no sun dwells.
Finally, the ground through ashy mist viewing,
You see a shroudy wind past oaken floors blowing,
Quickly peeking, then no more, see slits and rifts,
Through which pearly serpents from city's centre,
The golden abode of your jagged horn exit and enter.

Winter Sonnet, Op. 22

O' lament for the fair Summer's reign,
Who succumbed her song for Autumn's bane.
Like season to another, with little defence,
Was traded away our sweet demesne.
As slowly she removed her warm presence,
She implied, Autumn too when his time past,
Would wither and die like Summer must,
And make his way for Winter's powers,
Which retake now frozen woodland bowers,
And both strangle and caress all they grasp.
So, let none accuse that like banshee's wail,
Awfully sounds the blowing winds of winter's hail.

Immortals in this world much boredom find... Op. 21

Immortals in this world much boredom find,
As but malison harbours their dreary mind,
And tiresome grows both saint and heroine,
Who rarely rouse them from apathic spleen.
On these thrones lounge most gluttonous and slothful,
And sate deep from their vile and hedonistic desires,
And only from two thrones no godlike feature respires,
For no boredom fills the lungs of lusty and wrothful.
Yet think not badly of their strange ways,
For at times even here the sun's fair rays,
Illuminate their dark and decadent empire,
As daring man spits on gods' dusty attire.

Winter Sonnet, Op. 20

Reap away! you early storms!
blow the icy gales! the sudden shows!
clash and collide! in winter's might,
till surrenders every man, and reforms every light,
till gone all regrets, and no man warms in no glows,
till none be to yearn for no warm summer nights.
Reap away! till all world in frozen time!
follows but the ticking of frozen rime!
Reap and rage away! till ever spiral the gales,
and fills the air with summer's frozen wails.
And let the morning find itself like ice, brittle and hard,
as fitting, after the night's long blizzards.

Winter Sonnet, Op. 19

The buds of roses that afternoon;
Unknown to all the red red blooms,
Crystallise under the frozen dew,
As fades their life so very very soon,
To, come spring, bloom anew.
Though gentle the wind that blows,
And shine would still both sun and moon,
Stays no colour to tint eve's snows,
None to see through winter's woes,
No jewel to adorn the white white dunes,
And no prayer to grant almighty boons,
Though long would weep even the callous morning -
Wishing only that while be rent ever-lasting.

Story of the Nightingale, Op. 18

O Morning bird, for whom do you sing,
Who do you bless, whose fortune bring?
Your heavy burdens, your parcels dear,
Swiftly discard, hastily fling,
As thirsty we are, and grow thirstier still!
Close fountains fair, our goblets near,
Heed not! these cups please fill,
They never are full, never truly still.
From these we e'er drink, e'er more yearn,
Ours the water's edge, yet still the bowels burn!
'More, more pour! lest should we perish!
Who, whose thirst is this, does it ne'er extiguish!'

O Noon bird, for whom do you sing,
What do you lament, whose elegies ring?
Your fair voice, for whom does it grieve?
The fairer songs, why ne'er resume,
What do you insist, what to conceive?
Why sneer so, and what heartless doom
Of love, of light so sternly sound,
So unflinching, why do you hound,
The child of man! What undeserv'd ire,
in your symphonies sings the choir:
'Flee not fools, but waits the punishment,
All men must, pay for their time ill-spent!'

O Eve's bird, for whom do you sing,
What do you hail, what pale king,
Would earn our praise, would cheat our wine!
O Nightingale, what traitorous wing,
Has done away all our affectionate love,
As so burns my heart, this vile design,
What darkling desire, what cruel ensign,
Now adorns the breast of this heartless dove?
Yet answers the villain, deeply bows,
Sneeringly reminds, so reaps what sows,
'Command me no humane crown, nor thy rules,
Not thy acts, none of thy clowns and fools!'