Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
    Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
    A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
    Of deities or mortals, or of both,
        In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
    What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
        What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
    Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
    Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
    Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
        Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
    She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
        For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
    Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
    For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
    For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
        For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
    That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
        A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
    To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
    And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
    Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
        Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
    Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
        Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
    Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden ****;
    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
    When old age shall this generation waste,
        Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
    "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
        Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

i peer outward
on down and around
out into the street
under spiders’ feet
the spot on the fence
where they touched
brings my reflection
back to me
i listen closely
to the sounds they make
passers by talking ****
and the hum of
where i sit
the molecular spaces
between my back
and wood slats
songs they sing
to dust in plaster cracks
and you are gone
rid from these places
running around
the divots and wide
corridors of the
farthest shores

/
One day I went along this way
to the river
She called me
I had heard, loved
got lost in her

Then,
at that river,
I was swimming,
had a bath
went to the other side,
plucked the red lotus
Tirelessly had seen her maze form,
told her my unspoken words

That time is over
The river is buried,
doesn't call no more
Away,
never hear the songs of downstream
do not write a love poem for her
In fact,
not going the way anymore

Now the way turned the Highway
Cried out to the big Lorries
when I open the old window,
See the rain forms but never reply

Why I still see the dream
In Rain,
A small boat on the river
has lost in the fog-
/
@Musfiq us shaleheen