Methinks not in vain of what to my mind still,
I am warbling o'er his e'erlasting song,
that in thy graceful ease is more blessed
than in miseries to count I my reckoning days
against the world of thy most high deserts;
e'ery fig leaf in autumn wind to my old-formed memory,
of e'er melting snow in the mellowing year of spring,
oft makes haste in waste of words to bloody tyrant time,
that orphan whose life is but my only woe;
else that forfeited dark in Hades of a star,
still to a land of fairies abides by thee alone.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Wednesday, December 24,2014 2: 39: 58 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem