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Comments about Sarmad Rehman
Earth your garden's dryads are fled,
Once who lived from bough to bough;
The spring is gone and now,
Lush leaves are burnished with red;
The roses in their chaplets are dead,
Lakes are full of maple's pillows,
Sleep the nymphs in those lillows,
And dream about the life they led.
A lost pixie seems from far,
In golden grown of harvested land;
When at slumberous shadowy night,
Looks like some effulgent star
Floats in serene benignant flight,
When purls the wind upon the sand.