Thus, my muse by far in fair aspect of cold repose,
Outlives in measured breath this powerful rhyme;
Against forfeited dark to fill with high deserts
Titanic visions afar, carved of stones his chiseled bones,
Of ages that are dead in past woe's waking hour,
That unseen hand or eye to illumine in dumb despair!
More sweet! my only hope to arise by thee alone,
And oft possessed by what I lack in, thy love
Of hundred shadows by the grove, too deep for woe,
I hath lived to this day, hung aloft the ghastly night.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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Date Created: Thursday, July 03,2014 4: 02: 34 PM