The torture of silence midst the rain;
The trumpery drops seeming to eternity,
Only the creaks the distant laughs and oblivion
Of the sullen sky sighs the hasty time by.
The waywarding grace of thought in one stop;
Itself multifarious of varied rhymes and verses,
Belies the cordiality of the seasons in panoply
Dancing by the strings of time in subdued ditties.
Ah!The beckoning silvery light in forward steed;
Cantering `gainst the building rush galloping,
Though much sought in incessant essays endeavour`d
Yet steady in its pace reducing time to fore-lamenting.
The torture of silence in self-exert
Is not lesser than the cold season in flight.
