Wherefore oft her charms are bereft of sight
be more subtle in reality of the mind,
of wrinkled lip in my spilt words,
beside the oak thy iron car at Matilda's farm,
of crowqui'l that half-baked masonry's night,
unto the spine of a book leaf in autumn,
pricked with the furr coat in the cellar-barn
her stumbled feet upon the sand dunes:
needest not I in nurslings of immortality
e'ery flower upon a barren heath in the late evening:
away from heaven's high bower my shipwrecked dreams;
the sun of our common affairs still musing o'er the dale,
that tolls the bell at my door of rosemary garden,
a symbolic family on a red carpet, a table, a bed of crimson joy,
oft steal looks from a cottage-tree in haystack of woods,
enlightened by the Archangel's brow that man-in-the moon,
rest content be oblivion of a host among daffodils,
our little john, plays a hunch for the parade
of fickle foe's fiddle that day of unaltered eye.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Friday, June 24,2016 11: 33: 39 PM