O ye say not that our Lord is preparing
a meal or two for another dull round of day,
that by the time in seraph wings of gold,
I hath writ e'ery flower upon a barren heath
against a star of thy most high deserts;
the soaring Eagle on wings of snow-capped myrtle
shall toll the bell at my door,
ere in vain words of plaintive looks
to count I in timeless tide by the sea-ashore,
this world in thy graceful ease at break of day arise,
by Jove, to stars hath rent at midnight lease in waking hour,
of crow's quill my shipwrecked dreams make wither in autumn;
that day of unaltered eye in my bed of crimson joy,
bereaved of light in yellow-pages of history, no dark can e'er illumine,
unless you in such lichens of desire o'er the wall on high
has a hold me height under the Archangel's brow.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2015.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Friday, July 31,2015 12: 16: 07 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem