Song Of Harp

Ah, how mute is the song!
and no music
from thy ancient lyre
can one sweet hymn afford;
however pen-press'd
I my bosom rend,
I hear the sad account:
lo! how dreams in thin air
catch fire,
with the burning of desire;
while wreathing smoke in thy breath
hath extinguish'd
the electric spirits;
but you'd put all the blame
on season, mist and rain,
or may find faults
with the instrument;
see how thy fingers move,
as soon as they touch the strings,
it makes the heart blow,
like an empty vessel
of skipp'd beats,
as well break the chord,
much too strain'd is the nerve;
and no music
from thy ancient lyre
can one sweet hymn afford,
see, how silent is the harp!

(C) Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights (C)2012.
All Rights Reserved.

Date Created: Monday, April 23,2012 4: 33: 10 PM

by Naveed Khalid

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