Ah, my pulse is still cold and numb,
that each note of my heart beat
has a stress'd syllable;
but by eternal hands of time,
is recorded at thy feet,
and every breath that I hath lived
I hath lived this rhyme- -
this mute song of the harplings,
which my love hath writ
of shakespeherian rag,
is on wings, is on wings!
the soaring bird whose eagle eye
has full many a sun,
among stars of the vaulted sky,
while upon ruth of the harvest moon,
you let the world run;
but O! let me die, let me die!
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2013.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Thursday, May 30,2013 1: 36: 48 PM