Not least by what to my mind still in winter cold,
This world that moves me more to a vanished eye,
Feeds on nothing but what I write of my own shadow;
Blind of wanton looks so fair, a drifting dream amiss
From what remains confounded in Beulah's night,
My love of hallowed fire in Hades of a star!
The Eagle that soars above in high heavens,
Full many a pen-pricked angel at his beck and call,
Hath beset this throne at the gallows of thy feet,
And all my reckoning days in seraph wings of gold.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2014.
All Rights Reserved.
Date Created: Date Created: Wednesday, June 18,2014 11: 02: 13 AM
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem