Oh! Patience, My Love.
Have hit both my eyes an unknown storm --
the undoer of my marry Spring,
is beneath my brow a gushing form,
does a drench'd cheek to a yearner bring.
My auguries, that once blessed with love,
have gales become, for a trial of
the touchstone of my faithful shape,
loyal shadows that the future rake;
does my pain emit a cunning drape,
that when praise of love, the evils shake;
still, endure this, to a phase submit,
but, wit, my wit --is my patience fit,
are my gardens, for these storms to reave,
the fruits to come of better degree;
Or will steadfast be love, if believe,
in shade of the fruitless, standing tree.
Maybe, the grandeur of love is not grand
unless we bear our share of pains at hand.
R.N.Khan, © 2012