Should I more of my adversaries be part,
that to play a hunch for the parade,
e'ery looking eye of drifting dream amiss,
gold be thy beauty's fair love of made,
more temperate than darling buds of may
against the world of thy most high deserts;
of clay and wattle-made thistles by the stream
along the pavement of cow parsley between her lip and desire:
I most my heart hath fed in nurslings of immortality,
where blue-bells hang by the wall of wanton tapestry at thy throne.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2015.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Friday, June 26,2015 10: 54: 59 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem