Hymn To Morning

Then, this world that to a land of fairies abides,

That to my well-contented day be still

Of unnerved blood in vein to old-formed memory,

Much too less of what I thought, contented least

To account for love of thy most high deserts,

That forfeited dark in Hades of a star:

Oft on clover tops but hangs a golden bow,

Besmeared with pen-pricked angels through studded feelings arise,

A foul fawning bay at my door of morning's pure serene,

Has a hold me height, alas, but to overtly night;

E'ery flower upon a barren heath of ages that are dead,

Some vulgar paper to rehearse from out of the blues in still waters,

Agoing, agoing in waste of words my mind to that day of unaltered eye,

More temperate than darling buds of May in summer's prime

Ere you know the hand that writ in mournful numbers,

Of candle-lit stars in the mirror, thy gilded monument astounds.

(C) Naveed Khalid