This world, ah, but to see through thine holy eyen,
Unused to flow to e'er melting snow,
That in summer's prime too shall fade
Away from out of sight, my love, of thy most high deserts
To mourn in dismal shades of age-old grey;
Oft in precious minutes waste her old-formed memory, too deep for woe,
E'ery flower upon a barren heath in snow-capped myrtle,
I behold from afar at Minerva's golden brow:
Of clay and wattle-made thistles by the stream to eternal bliss,
A mistletoe on his back along the pavement of cow parsley,
Needest no light to becharm the skies in silent hours of the night,
Let all heaven be darkly lit in thy abode, still burning, burning!
(C) Naveed Khalid
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Date Created: Wednesday, November 05,2014 2: 38: 32 PM