Having writ thee fair summer's bright
that in melodious accents I, I
bear amiss such rhyme, rhythm and meter;
that in whose sweet-scented silence
e'erything seems but a far-off cry
against all vicissitudes of the sky
this world of my shipwrecked dreams,
only waiting to hear the church bell toll at my door,
else in simple fold my vain endeavour:
know not when, what time of the year goes unchecked
by the west-wind in autumn,
until nothing stirrs the mind of a hundred shadows by thy grove;
many hath stood and wept to hear ye sing unto me
this dull song of love and delight away
from white swan's ethereal Wing,
still stuck up in yore sleeves some dry leaves
of departed looks in winter cold,
by the sweat of thy brow to e'er melting snow,
beside the bed of oak ere thine unweird eyen.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2015.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Saturday, December 12,2015 2: 45: 06 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem