Oft I hear you sing of eternal silences
that in the mellowing year of spring,
where squirrels make hoards in haystack of woods;
of untread places far-off beyond the sunrise,
her rhyming footsteps by the sea-ashore,
that crow's quill of my shipwrecked dreams
beside that soldier's grave unknown, heaven-ward bent,
no dark can e'er illumine that day of unaltered eye
at sunset of the evening sky with pen-pricked angels,
e'ery flower upon a barren heath in my bed of crimson joy,
above a funeral pyre, my love, of snow-capped myrtle,
this world in wild ecstasy of pure heaven o'er the dale,
of clay and wattle-made thistles by the stream,
some such dry leaves of book in rosemary garden,
under the hedgerow of a cottage-tree,
that man-in-the-moon by the Archangel's brow.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Wednesday, October 14,2015 3: 50: 27 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem