Dovetail Poem by Naveed Khalid

Sleep, O, sleep! let this waking hour pass
ere you know the hand that writ in mournful numbers
e'ery flower upon a barren heath,
oft leaves me in dismay,
that in pen-pricked angels to account for love,
of what to my old formed memory still abides:
sweet dreams, my child, sweet dreams
of blushed roses from beauty's belligerent smile,
above the mantle piece,
where the picture hangs by the wall
of thy most high deserts;
my mother beside, in melodious accents I,
too, hath cried and wept in my bed of crimson joy
to beweep my outcast state in this world forlorn;
the crow's quill hath fled from earth's infernal grave,
alas, but to mourn the last dance of happy shades
upon the strand of still waters to e'er melting snow,
I sit still brooding o'er the dale such soft fleece to gather
from thy fair lamb in November.

(C) Naveed Khalid

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Date Created: Wednesday, October 23,2014.2: 32 PM