Needest not I in counting prayers
thy blessings more,
of woe-begone days that half-baked
a broccoli, beneath the bed of crimson joy
against e'ery flower upon a barren heath!
of cowslip her parted hair upon the sand dunes,
under the hedgerow of a cottage-tree:
thy iron car at matilda's farm
of e'ery departed look my shipwrecked dreams,
no dark can e'er illumine in the late evening,
beside the oak,
this world of thy most high deserts
hath rent at midnight lease,
of eyes so blind such darling buds of may,
heaven-ward bent her gracious muse
of so rich thy charms,
all wrapped in shroud of a star,
still musing o'er the dale in nurslings of immortality,
the sun of our common affairs at my door,
that day of christmas eve, our little john,
opes a garden unto my unweird eyen, sweet maid,
where blue-bells hang by the wall
at e'ery step of the way by the sea-ashore,
ages that are dead above the mundane,
of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2016.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Monday, April 04,2016 7: 36: 42 PM
Monday, April 04,2016 7: 37: 57 PM
* S k i d: in whose heart...