Not less so fairly robbed of me her auburn looks
that I carry with a heavy heart thy yoke too dear,
of plucked parsley upon the sand dunes
her stumbled feet to my shipwrecked dreams!
at midnight lease this world of first falling winter snow;
against e'ery flower upon a barren heath,
so sweetly wed to my thought her night-long love;
awakes but a wonder in thine holy eyen, sweet maid:
away from high heavens in the late evening,
hung aloft ghastly night I still behold,
darkly drowned enigma of yore dream in solemn or strain this dull rhyme,
beside the oak, while I stood at the do'r of rosemary garden;
some shadow fell from myrtle in my bed of crimson joy,
old folks our bedtime stories tell under the Archangel's brow,
half-way between the carpet upon thy iron car at Matilda's farm,
still musing o'er the dale of what the stars in secret influence comment,
pricked with a furr coat in the cellar-barn that wayfarer's clime;
of crowqui'l such darling buds of may in haystack and straw,
arise, arise from off thy ancient lyre in morning's pure serene.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: July 20, 2016, Wednesday, 8: 46 PM