Never have I found worthy of thy perusal this world
that through such odd sightings to a close afraid,
of e'ery departed look that imagery imbroglio,
hath such subtle thought in reality of the mind;
full glorious sun of laurel wreath thy myrtle crown,
I sit still watching the skies of thy most high deserts
away from heaven's high bower in rosemary garden,
my pilgrimage to thee under the Archangel's brow,
against bright-lit mirror of thine holy eyen!
some dry autumn leaves of book beside the bed of oak,
needest no dark that by dark bewails the night of snow-capped myrtle,
more temperate than darling buds of may,
along the pavement of cow parsley with pen-pricked angels,
of golden tress his hair upon the sand dunes,
a host of crowd among daffodils in solemn strain this dull rhyme.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2015.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Tuesday, January 05,2016 7: 11: 48 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem