Of virtuous pen my love reads, Milton!
and not by dew her eyes be wet,
that in May morning by summer's eve;
from e'ery turning page to age-old sun,
hath writ this line of holy birth;
of sunset in my bed with no dark insight,
nor epitaph by the grave unattended,
be still of yonder looks her sepulcher:
this world alone by sight, too dear,
which, by Jove, to a star hath rent
e'ery flower upon a barren heath
as marigold in autumn of thy book.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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Date Created: Sunday, January 19,2014 2: 01: 49 PM