What heathen mons of churning breath,
in ferity spurn who, writhing death;
can’st in retort to such howls of they,
serve madness to those mad astray.
Fore these thunderous furies ground
to desperate fools such luring sounds,
beware the gods of men less meant
Sierra! the gods of dreams misspent.
What heathen mons of churning breath,
If orphaned, does hope find a refuge yet
amidst shadows trembling under our step,
let it falter not by the thunderous fury then
of fallen souls vanquished by lesser men,
let it not be servile to that which is known
of the days now past, or to come it seems
for art lesser minds which abandon hope
than those abandoned by hopeless dreams
Crippled is the will of unto whom is woe,
protests he in envy of all souls sleeping;
“Of what doth ye care, and why if ist so?
saved art thou from it, only ye dreaming.”
Fades the hour of whom it cannot wake,
thinks he in rebuttal of those who tempt;
“What canst thou yearn, for heavens sake
O if only ye dreamt, O if only ye dreamt.”
Wouldst it please thee, wert I the pope of fools,
for is my fall here to the very least of,
a blasphemy to myself or to ye?
Shalt I rather stand atop Plato’s monument
in awe of all but love, orphaned will,
departed dreams and hollowness?
For doubt I do, shalt thou yet be pleased with
such a wiser fool or even a foolish sage,
or I with myself, a bard to wasted years
and yawning egos too empty conquests.
I speakest of fate, and what you, my love;
morals, decency and fear of silence?
they mean naught, and naught to me doth thou mean.
Fare well the echo of time, without me,
as it deafens ye to be no different than
those I abhorr to which thou liken me,
and see if it pleases thee, O beautiful fool.
Let not the deafened modern times
and of these times, deaf people let
ruin thy song of thoughtful chimes
or of that song, life’s words forget.
Every path that leadeth unto my lovers home,
resplendent tis with flowers, scent of flowers red,
as countless currants droop where ever I do roam,
among them sweetest faith, tis where I am thus lead.
Wherever hangest a fruit of heaven,
If thou wert to come upon it someday,
surely shalt thou taste its nectar,
and on thy palette shall not reside
ecstasy, for it beist most evanescent,
faith, for is thine most capricious,
love, for it bears concupiscence,
but loss, for thou shalt cherish a memory.
He hast not felt a woman’s touch,
nor purest wine has had its may.
Too foolish he, in fact a child,
to dearest death no longer virgin.
O Raise not thy gaze at a visage proud,
that be’est fate, my most ingenuous dupe,
set instead thy gaze at yon found
very end to which life must stoop.
Listen my progeny, as I know not of joy
so when’st thou giggle I feel only grief,
and might I add thou art a bastardly boy,
I abhorr thee at best, regret thou in brief.
Lead thou I may, but I swear not to days,
of enduring peace or of eternal wonder,
I merely lead, perhaps to uncertain ways,
and I only lead unto prospects under.
Argue of nations with lesser a founding?
inheritors least of morals in standing?
children that came at moments misfortune
yet fathered not same an era withstanding?
But see my rascal, the same is not true,
though if even it be, I do hardly agree
for agree I shan’t in opinions lieu,
and agree I must in opinions dreamt free.
If thou recoil’est at the sight of me,
I wish you to witness all that I hath,
what people unto people thus dole unto thee
the children of eve, the dogs of days wrath.
Ti’s a pity for pity to not find,
in an hour such as this its way
to those who adhered in its hind
and lead the bleak souls of dismay,
from fates blackened, vacant hope,
joyless aim, and aimless hunger,
into such hopes which did elope
with equal lives fore them asunder.
Doth not suffice for wretchedness
to have such monuments in woe,
but as its wonting shall it dress
all glory red, for us to know.
I watch their children emerging
with languid eyes and weary airs
from their fathers side weeping
to bleed in their due place unfair.
I hope for children of their thence
I fear for children their instead
host to fates made recompense
for our fates all else I dread.
Who are they, who muffled suffer,
tears of whom know slumber none,
life whom perchance silenced utter
which hath found its rest in some,
for those in whom is yet to set,
those who have not yet to feign
apathy to the breath of death
I fear have found in departing gain.