Bulrush-Burshay Poem by Naveed Khalid

No! blow ye not the harplings
of fickle-foe's fiddle,
hath but little scope
from off so deep a slumber,
of glorious days her cherubim Wing,
moves on with such stepping stones
away from heaven's high bower,
some dry leaves beside the bed of oak:
hung aloft the ghastly night of what I write,
our little john, upon the sand dunes;
where no feet hath tread upon the mundane shell,
the stars in secret influence comment
under the hedgerow of a cottage-tree,
no heart can afford such love-sick thought on thee,
that in solemn strain this dull rhyme o'er the dale,
of her apple tarts at Minerva's golden brow,
makes beauteous my nights by day's toil too bright
beyond the sunrise no dark can e'er illumine,
e'ery departed look to my shipwrecked dreams.

(C)Naveed Khalid

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Date Created: Friday, January 08,2016 6: 18: 57 PM
Friday, January 08,2016 6: 20: 26 PM
Friday, January 08,2016 6: 21: 22 PM

updated: Saturday, January 09,2016 7: 06: 54 PM