Beatific Poem by Naveed Khalid

When all the better part of me to account for love
of thy most high deserts,
that by beauty more to my eyes so blind;
of virgin mother born,
her summer's day to my e'er living memory,
oft moves afoot to eternal bliss in waking hour:
than all the world beside that by night no more,
ere you know the hand that writ in mournful numbers
e'ery flower upon a barren heath of ages that are dead
to that day of unaltered eye, I behold, I behold.

(C) Naveed Khalid

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Date Created: Thursday, December 25,2014 2: 16: 01 PM