Must I first depart from this world all woe
against the second best to abide,
of e'ery loving grace thy most high deserts,
no less than I my shipwrecked dreams,
not least be worthy of thy perusal, my love,
of fealty's Apollo at my door in rosemary garden;
of soring thumb impressions that man-in-the-moon:
beside the oak in the late evening of wringkled lip in my spilt words,
e'ery flower upon a barren heath at midnight lease,
above the mundane, a stressed-out note of e'ery skipped beat,
of clay and wattle-made thistles by the stream,
no dark can e'er illumine under the Archangel's brow,
from nowhere arise, arise in haystack of woods,
heaven-ward bent such darling insights,
until nothing stirrs the mind of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown,
half-way between the carpet upon her stumbled feet.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2016.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Monday, February 22,2016 1: 19: 34 PM
Monday, February 22,2016 1: 16: 01 PM
Monday, February 22,2016 1: 20: 32 PM
Monday, February 22,2016 1: 24: 58 PM
Monday, February 22,2016 1: 25: 34 PM
* at 'me' is the rhymer 56 who made me mispell the word 'me' instead of be!
* Gestnent: Chchhaha: vcsal