Cenotaph Arcadia Poem by Naveed Khalid

Me all too weird of what I write to my eyes so blind,
of stumbled feet her untread dream by the sea ashore,
that e'ery groaning heart but feeds on love
of beauty's prima facie in my aforesaid rhyme;
a hoard of lilies beside that grow at bedtime in spring,
oft beguiled by a shadow oak of her age-old sun:
I still behold through the stigmata of cut-out trees,
hath a nightly escape in the deep forest from the world forlorn,
some vulgar paper to rehearse upon the strand of still waters,
of red-linen, my bride, along the pavement of cow parsley
to e'er melting snow at Minerva's golden brow;
moves afoot to eternal bliss in waking hour
against the world of thy most high deserts,
too dear in spilt words that staircase window up the hill,
of ages that are dead by the soldier's grave unknown;
e'ery flower upon a barren heath in my bed of crimson joy
ere you know the hand that writ in mournful numbers
this embassage in precious minutes waste by the west wind in autumn,
holds me in dismay to the last of legion at the stone of Bohan.

(C) Naveed Khalid

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Date Created: Thursday, January 08,2015 3: 39: 43 PM