(On Yeats' 'Tower of Thoorballylee')
Me not on sure footings to beget her charms,
fore'er watchful at midnight lease,
of untread places far-off beyond the sunrise;
above the archway, that to my mind still
through the window-pane o'er the wall on high,
opes a garden unto my unweird eyen, unused to flow!
a yellow-tinged star of thy most high deserts,
that by the sweat of thy brow in heaven's high bower:
all the panorama of this world beside,
blows the trumpet-horn in tempest beats of wild ecstasy,
of whom, they say, not I in revery of sublime feeling
that crow's quill of compass'd ark at sunset of the evening sky,
barred of e'ery fair in deep azure under the canopy of a hut,
that day of e'er melting snow to eternal bliss upon the sand dunes,
of such stirred looks a fleeting shadow by the west-wind in autumn,
ere I write thee, sweet maid, against bloody tyrant time.
(C) Naveed Khalid
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Date Created: Thursday, June 25,2015 8: 32: 19 PM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem