Must I hide from eternals this world
of wayfarer's clime,
heaven hath her golden bough on top
of the trees,
the setting sun of our common affairs
from olive branch,
shook off his head like a soring thumb impression,
of glorious days her night-long love
at my door of rosemary garden:
beside the oak, while musing o'er the dale,
still her muse in argument with thee
under the hedgerow of a cottage-hill;
e'ery flower upon a barren heath
o'er the wall on high by two lovers dead,
of eyes so blind with holy dread,
down the lane in amber woods my shipwrecked dreams,
bear the burden of thy yoke too dear,
such stepping stones along the pavement
of cow parsley, some dry leaves of book in autumn.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2016.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Monday, October 03, 2016. 9: 01 PM
Title Revised: From A Procession To A procession of horse riders