Not least from slumbers deep this world can e'er
illumine my shipwrecked dreams,
half-way between the carpet upon
thy iron car at Matilda's farm;
of fealty's Apollo at my door, a rosemary garden,
at midnight lease e'ery flower upon a barren heath,
besmeared with time in the late evening,
her stumbled feet upon the sand dunes:
against thy most high deserts, my age-old love,
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown,
hung aloft the ghastly night I still behold,
beside the oak, at break of day arise, arise
that man-in-the moon under the Archangel's brow,
of so rich thy charms my glorious days;
more be spent away from high heavens
than what the stars in secret influence comment;
rest content be oblivion of a host among daffoldils,
while musing o'er the dale, our little john,
moves on with such stepping stones in full bright summer.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Wednesday, May 18, 2016 6:19:03 PM