You're but the presager of mine eye, more eloquent!
Of timeless tide her love of burning gold;
And in words, too, hath served the painter's art,
What oft by ghastly night is marked by thee,
That grows by e'ery passing minute a star!
Has nothing than this fedora of your dream:
All roses fade, withered from their cheeks all red,
The desert in my eyes with salt of seven seas,
From afar by world's wit to prove my bride,
Still virtuous than I, by pen hath writ more great,
More to eternal bliss her sightless view apart,
Beset from dark her abode in full-bright summer.
(C) Naveed Khalid
Copy Rights (C) 2013.
All Rights Reserved.
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