No, not a word, not a word can e'er illumine,
first frost of her falling winter snow,
this fedora of yore drifting dream amiss,
unto my shipwrecked dreams in the late evening,
of what the stars in secret influence comment,
oft tending the flocks of the world by fair means foul,
flawed in e'erything that half-baked masonry's night,
hath but little scope of such hideous looks,
e'ery flower upon a barren heath
under the Archangel's brow, sweet maid!
the cat still purrs at the citadel of her good old days
in the cellar-barn, my deeds to pry
through the staircase window of the wall on high;
beside the oak, fills me with thy most high deserts
thy iron car at Matilda's farm,
still musing o'er the dale in my bed of crimson joy,
rest content be oblivion of a host among daffodils,
of broken mast-shaft at north, our little john,
needest not in nurslings of immortality her night-long love.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2016.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Sunday, July 17, 2016 7:54:30 PM
Sunday, July 17, 2016 7:55:45 PM