Jesterhead
06-17-2010, 11:57 AM
Purchased to, the other two.
Slight air and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide,
The first my thought, the other my desire.
An anthem for the swift-motion slide,
Ye loved her for her hated pride,
And when she fell, ye blessed her that she died,
Ye blessed her with death, my coming bride.
In tender embassy of love for thee, the ritual be read,
My life, being made of four, with two alone the requiem is sung.
Sinks down to death, oppressed with the melancholy of what is dead,
By you, the evil eye, by you the requiem is sung with slanderous tongue.
When hast thy love cast hatreds utmost sum?,
But rave not thus, foreign of a sabbath song,
Against that time if ever that time come,
Go up to God, Where the dead feel no wrong.
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet,
As thy realm roars the holocast of time,
For the wide world, and all her fading sweets,
As is for the forbidden most heinous crime.
Yet no bell toll, yet rest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
And thou old time, never reached to draw no lines with thy antique pen,
Caught the note as it doth float up from the damned earth,
For beauty's patterns to succeeding men.
How lovely thou make the shame,
But flowers distilled though they with winter meet.
Blessed with every sorrow from where death came,
Lest but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
Slight air and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide,
The first my thought, the other my desire.
An anthem for the swift-motion slide,
Ye loved her for her hated pride,
And when she fell, ye blessed her that she died,
Ye blessed her with death, my coming bride.
In tender embassy of love for thee, the ritual be read,
My life, being made of four, with two alone the requiem is sung.
Sinks down to death, oppressed with the melancholy of what is dead,
By you, the evil eye, by you the requiem is sung with slanderous tongue.
When hast thy love cast hatreds utmost sum?,
But rave not thus, foreign of a sabbath song,
Against that time if ever that time come,
Go up to God, Where the dead feel no wrong.
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet,
As thy realm roars the holocast of time,
For the wide world, and all her fading sweets,
As is for the forbidden most heinous crime.
Yet no bell toll, yet rest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
And thou old time, never reached to draw no lines with thy antique pen,
Caught the note as it doth float up from the damned earth,
For beauty's patterns to succeeding men.
How lovely thou make the shame,
But flowers distilled though they with winter meet.
Blessed with every sorrow from where death came,
Lest but their show; their substance still lives sweet.