All things of beauty come to pass
before you know
the hand that writ
in eternal numbers thy name;
and my pen is westward bent
along the hair strand,
without lifting the veil of night
from her sewing face;
for its sulky expression is bound
to the spine of a book-leaf,
like a dry musk-rose.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2012.
All Rights Reserved.
*Republished
Date Created: Sunday, March 11,2012 3: 26: 10 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very nice poem. Deep and thought provoking.