Who would not but sing, --
to build a lofty rhyme;
He must float unto melodious tears
haste! My soul has been but swept!
Along the passes, oft till heavy hearts do
faulter, o’ergrown with a doubt.
Bellowing! Were ye not too fondly
dreamt, the Cerberus!
Alas! Enchanting brute’ ye preying
on th’ deep, the thought spun laboriously,
the devils thorns had bred this beast;
birthed from depressious wanderings.
How well to spend the flower of the loom
and bind a lover’s bond to nothing more; than
a fleeing star whose fond descent is brightest
on the dying, of their echoing mourn,
now I must return! You are no longer a rose, --
your petals have withered and absent
the willow holds your corpse or was it mine,
with wild rhyme; the frost has set in.
Such to loss whom did lament; of tangled hair
I have strictly spread my broken wings,
and witnessed your pronounces of love.
O glistering fatal lies touch not my trembling lips
be inscribed with woe, last came and first did go,
th’ Cerberus whose many faces share me whole, --
and devoured the sunken streams of melodies;
which all belong to memories, frail on a distant shore.
And every flower did but weep no more;
Now, Gone, Henceforth you are decomposed,
in the belly of that Melancholy Cerberus, --
O ye of monstrous mounts sleep not.