O Master mine! Shalt thou pity me wear?
If I turned, where thy olde mystery forsake
In content smile to make me out fear?
When the pretty sun doth measure a stake
Of Honesty to fill in long and undisturbed aim?
Excess of joy, excess of greed as thou say'st
Are not for those who attempt to be men, claim;
So I say, can't it be less the woe, their, in Tempest
Wherein, far, a lot went to be thy prey
And unassured, when most were vain in thee;
Too me, when much to be assured of life, makest grey!
Continuous as the star thou glitter, though be
In darkening night, triffle all thee careth;
Say hay, say hay- except, who welfareth!
COPYRIGHT@ RESERVED BY PIJUSH BISWAS
10/17/2016
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem