Lord! me, too, hath passed that age of crimson joy,
That grows to eternal bliss in silent hours of the night;
More blessed by what I write, of wanton looks that boy
Than by looking more, so porous as the eyes, such darling insight
To my mind still of another rent at midnight lease,
E'ery flower upon a barren heath ere thine unweird eye:
My love of youthful prime in summer's evening sky,
Much too rendered in age old grey under the Archangel's brow,
That lone wanderer's bed, a star-Y velorum, Mitzva in his hand,
This world against a pastoral background, but to thee suffice;
Ah! from a bowl of stars to drink, a drop of vintage hides
Away from out of sight in that cottage-tree, burning! burning!
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2014.
All Rights Reserved.
* He who is mostly perturbed by the outside influence
is the by-product of circumstances