Daleel

Kitaaaboon se daleel don ya khud ko samney rakh don Faraz,
Wo mujh se pooch betha hey muhabbat kis ko kehtey hain...!!

Mujhey mehsoos hota hey

Woh boli..............

WOH boli dil ko koi bay yakeeni hai mohabat main,
main bola theek hai par eshq to emaan hota hai

WOH boli aarzuain dil kay andar bayn karti hain
main bola thek hai mujhko sunaey daiti rehti hain

WOH boli koi shab to khawb main bhi khawb aatay hain
main bola thek hai,kuch hasratain aisay bhi karti hain

WOH boli barishon main aur zayadah jaan sulugti hai
main bola thek hai yeh aag pani kay masael hain

Woh boli raat kyon mushkil say kat-tee hai judaee main?
main bola waqt to kaifeeyaton ka naam hota hai

WOH boli chahaton main dard kay rehnay ki khwahish kyon?
Main bola dard kay maray huoon ko chayne milta hai

WOH kehti hai sitaray ansoon main kyon chamaktay hain ?
main kehta hon mohabt roshni main rang bharti hai

WOH kehti hai tumharay baad barish kyon nahi hoti ?
main kehta hon,meri jaan hijr sehraon main rehta hai !

WOH mujhsay pochti hai,tum samandar main kabhi utray
Main bola ek samandar dusuray main kisleay utray

WOH mujhsay pochti hai ,mujhsaybaatain kyon nahi kartay
Main kehta hon,abhi to dekhnay ki manzilon par hon

WOH mujhsay pochti hai,pyaar ka matlab
Main kehta hon,Har ek Baat ka Matlab nahi hota

WOH boli dard ke us paar bhi ek dard rehta hai
Main uskay baad bohot daire tak kuch bhi nahi bola...

Fursat

Mere Dil mere musafir.......

Wo mujhey roz parindoon ki misaal deta hey.......

Wo mujhey roz parindon ki misaal deta hey Faraz,
Saaf saaf nhi kehta k mera sheher chor do......!!!!!!

Kuch tu hi............

Kuch tu hi merey dard ka mafhoom samajh le Faraz,
Ye hansta howa chehra tu zamaney k lye hey......!!!!!

Be-nam zindagi ki haqiqat na pochiye ...........

Be-nam zindagy ki haqeeqat na pochiye Faraz,
Kuch purkhuloos loog they barbad kar gaye...

Yunhi fasloon ko sajaye rakh...........

Yunhi faslonn ko sajaye rakh,
Yunh intezar rehne de........

Mere zehno dil k sukoon per,
Mera ikhtiyar rehne dey.....

Teri chahaton ka jo dard hey,
Ye sab khushi se qubool hey

Meri chashm e nam ka gham na kar,
Mujhey ashkbar rhne dey...........

Teri bebasi bhi baja sahi,
Meri khush fehmi bhi ghalat nhi

Tujhey har qadam pe khushi miley,
Mujhey sugwar rehne dey..........

Meri guftugu main jo dard hey,
Wohi dard mera naseeeb hey

Main bhula chuka hon qarar ko,
Mujhey beqarar rehne dey....!!!!

Bara dushwar hota hey.........

Nahi wo shakhs muqaddar main....

Nahi wo shakhs muqaddar main phi bhi us se miltey hain
Buhut pur lutf lagta hey muqaddar ko saza dena

dua...........

Tumharey cehrey pe jo sajey hain

Kaha us ney ruku ab tum.......

Mene us se poocha........

December lout aya hey.............

December jab bhi ata hey............

Aj december ki akhri shab main.......

Dard gar admi hota...............

Tere khayal ki chokhat pe ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Buht chup chup se rehtey ho,,,,,,,,,,,

Na pooch kitna chaha hey tujhey........

Tumhain kabhi bhula na skon ge..

Ik tumharey rooth jane sey....

Hamain awaz dedena...............

Ehmiyet...

Ay Hawa...........

Kis lye ab udaas bethi ho........

Gar tum Aina dekho.......

Ankain_Chor_Hoty_Hain.............

Wo akhri shaam..

Aik sawal k ander ham ne katy nisf sadi.............

A

Ankhon k deep hi they merey ikhtiyaar main.....

Follow Your Dreams, Believe In Yourself.....................

Mujhey Aksar Yeh Kehty Thi Muhabbat Kuch Nhi Hoty

The Picture of Little T.C. in a Prospect of Flowers

SEE with what simplicity

This nymph begins her golden days!

In the green grass she loves to lie,

And there with her fair aspect tames

The wilder flowers, and gives them names;

But only with the roses plays,

And them does tell

What colour best becomes them, and what smell.
Who can foretell for what high cause

This darling of the gods was born?

Yet this is she whose chaster laws

The wanton Love shall one day fear,

And, under her command severe,

See his bow broke and ensigns torn.

Happy who can

Appease this virtuous enemy of man!
O then let me in time compound

And parley with those conquering eyes,

Ere they have tried their force to wound;

Ere with their glancing wheels they drive

In triumph over hearts that strive,

And them that yield but more despise:

Let me be laid,

Where

I may see the glories from some shade.
Meantime, whilst every verdant thing

Itself does at thy beauty charm,

Reform the errors of the Spring;

Make that the tulips may have share

Of sweetness, seeing they are fair,

And roses of their thorns disarm;

But most procure

That violets may a longer age endure.
But O, young beauty of the woods,

Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,

Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;

Lest Flora, angry at thy crime

To kill her infants in their prime,

Do quickly make th' example yours;

And ere we see,

Nip in the blossom all our hopes and thee.

The Definition of Love

MY Love is of a birth as rare
As 'tis for object strange and high
It was begotten by Despair
Upon Impossibility.
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing
Where feeble Hope could ne'r have flown
But vainly flapt its tinsel wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixt
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds it self betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect Loves; nor lets them close:
Their union would her ruin be,
And her Tyrannic pow'r depose.
And therefore her Decrees of Steel
Us as the distant Poles have plac'd,
(Though Love's whole World on us doth wheel)
Not by themselves to be embrac'd.

Unless the giddy Heaven fall,

And Earth some new Convulsion tear;

And, us to join, the World should all

Be cramp'd into a Planisphere.
As Lines so Loves oblique may well

Themselves in every Angle greet:

But ours so truly Parallel,

Though infinite can never meet.
Therefore the Love which us doth bind

But Fate so enviously debars,

Is the Conjunction of the Mind,

And Opposition of the Stars.

A Garden: Written after the Civil Wars

SEE how the flowers, as at parade,
Under their colours stand display'd:
Each regiment in order grows,
That of the tulip, pink, and rose.
But when the vigilant patrol
Of stars walks round about the pole,
Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl'd,
Seem to their staves the ensigns furl'd.
Then in some flower's beloved hut
Each bee, as sentinel, is shut,
And sleeps so too; but if once stirr'd,
She runs you through, nor asks the word.
O thou, that dear and happy Isle,
The garden of the world erewhile,
Thou Paradise of the four seas
Which Heaven planted us to please,
But, to exclude the world, did guard
With wat'ry if not flaming sword;
What luckless apple did we taste
To make us mortal and thee waste!
Unhappy! shall we never more
That sweet militia restore,
When gardens only had their towers,
And all the garrisons were flowers;
When roses only arms might bear,
And men did rosy garlands wear?

An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland

THE forward youth that would appear
Must now forsake his Muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.
'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unused armour's rust,
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urged his active star:
And like the three-fork'd lightning,
firstBreaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide:
For 'tis all one to courage high,
The emulous, or enemy;
And with such, to enclose
Is more than to oppose.
Then burning through the air he went
And palaces and temples rent;
And Caesar's head at last
Did through his laurels blast.
'Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of angry Heaven's flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,
Who, from his private gardens,
whereHe lived reserved and austere
(As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot),
Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of time,
And cast the Kingdoms old
Into another mould;
Though Justice against
Fate complain,
And plead the ancient rights in vain—
But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak—
Nature, that hateth emptiness,
Allows of penetration less,
And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil war
Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art;
Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope
That Charles himself might chase
To Caresbrooke's narrow case;
That thence the Royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn:
While round the armed bands
Did clap their bloody hands.
He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try;
Nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;
But bow'd his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.
This was that memorable hour
Which first assured the forced power:
So when they did design
The Capitol's first line,
A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the State
Foresaw its happy fate!
And now the Irish are ashamed
To see themselves in one year tamed:
So much one man can do
That does both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confest
How good he is, how just
And fit for highest trust.
Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the republic's hand—
How fit he is to sway
That can so well obey!
He to the Commons' feet presents
A Kingdom for his first year's rents,
And, what he may, forbears
His fame, to make it theirs:
And has his sword and spoils ungirt
To lay them at the public's skirt.
So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,
She, having kill'd, no more doth search
But on the next green bough to perch;
Where, when he first does lure,
The falconer has her sure.
What may not then our
Isle presume
While victory his crest does plume?
What may not others fear,
If thus he crowns each year?
As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all States not free
Shall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his particolour'd mind,
But, from this valour, sad
Shrink underneath the plaid;
Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.
But thou, the war's and fortune's son,
March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect,
Still keep the sword erect:
Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.

To His Coy Mistress

HAD we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, Lady, were no crime.

We would sit down and think which way

To walk and pass our long love's day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side

Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide

Of Humber would complain.

I wouldLove you ten years before the

Flood,And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires, and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast;

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart;

For, Lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found,

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song: then worms shall try

That long preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust:

The grave's a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in this slow-chapt power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

The Indian Serenade

ARISE from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright.

I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feetHath led me—

who knows how?

To thy chamber window, Sweet!
The wandering airs they faint

On the dark, the silent stream—

And the champak's odours [pine]

Like sweet thoughts in a dream;

The nightingale's complaint,

It dies upon her heart,

As I must on thine,

O beloved as thou art!
O lift me from the grass!

I die! I faint! I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heart beats loud and fast:

O press it to thine own again,

Where it will break at last!

Ode to the West Wind

I
O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being

Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes!

O thou Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until

Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth,

and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)

With living hues and odours plain and hill;
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;

Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!

II

Thou on whose stream,

'mid the steep sky's commotion,

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,

Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread

On the blue surface of thine airy surge,

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge

Of the horizon to the zenith's height,

The locks of the approaching storm.

Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,

Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!

III

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,

Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,

And saw in sleep old palaces and towers

Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them!

ThouFor whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below

The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear

The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,

And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free

Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even

I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,

As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed

Scarce seem'd a vision—

I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.

O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd

One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.

V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:

What if my leaves are falling like its own?

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou,

Spirit fierce, My spirit!

Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,

Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;

And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

The Moon

I

AND, like a dying lady lean and pale,

Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,

Out of her chamber, led by the insane

And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,

The mood arose up in the murky east,

A white and shapeless mass

II

Art thou pale for weariness

Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,

Wandering companionless

Among the stars that have a different birth,

And ever changing, like a joyless eye

That finds no object worth its constancy?

To a Skylark

HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert—
That from heaven or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar,
and soaring ever singest.
In the golden light'ning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen,
but yet I hear thy shrill delight—
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams,
and heaven is overflow'd.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:—
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embower'd
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers—
All that ever wasJoyous and clear and fresh—thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt—
A thin wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet, if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear,
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know;
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as
I am listening now.

To a Skylark

HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert—

That from heaven or near it

Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest,

Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar,

and soaring ever singest.

In the golden light'ning

Of the sunken sun,

O'er which clouds are bright'ning,

Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of heaven,

In the broad daylight

Thou art unseen,

but yet I hear thy shrill delight—
Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere

Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,

As when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams,

and heaven is overflow'd.
What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:—
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love,
which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embower'd
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers—
All that ever was
Joyous and clear and fresh—thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt—
A thin wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind?
what ignorance of
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet, if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear,
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know;
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Hellas

THE world's great age begins anew,

The golden years return,

The earth doth like a snake renew

Her winter weeds outworn;

Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam

Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.
A brighter

Hellas rears its mountains

From waves serener far;

A new Peneus rolls his fountains

Against the morning star;

Where fairer

Tempes bloom, there sleep

Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.
A loftier Argo cleaves the main,

Fraught with a later prize;

Another Orpheus sings again,

And loves, and weeps, and dies;

A new Ulysses leaves once more

Calypso for his native shore.
O write no more the tale of Troy,

If earth Death's scroll must be—

Nor mix with Laian rage the joy

Which dawns upon the free,

Although a subtler

Sphinx renew

Riddles of death

Thebes never knew.
Another Athens shall arise,

And to remoter time

Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,

The splendour of its prime;

And leave, if naught so bright may live,

All earth can take or Heaven can give.
Saturn and Love their long repose

Shall burst, more bright and good

Than all who fell, than One who rose,

Than many unsubdued:

Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,

But votive tears and symbol flowers.
O cease! must hate and death return?

Cease! must men kill and die?

Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn

Of bitter prophecy!

The world is weary of the past—

O might it die or rest at last!

The Invitation

BEST and brightest, come away!

Fairer far than this fair Day,

Which, like thee to those in sorrow,

Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow

To the rough Year just awakeIn its cradle on the brake.

The brightest hour of unborn Spring,

Through the winter wandering,

Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn

To hoar February born.Bending from heaven,

in azure mirth,It kiss'd the forehead of the Earth;

And smiled upon the silent sea;

And bade the frozen streams be free;

And waked to music all their fountains;

And breathed upon the frozen mountains;

And like a prophetess of May

Strew'd flowers upon the barren way,

Making the wintry world appear

Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.
Away, away, from men and towns,

To the wild wood and the downs—

To the silent wilderness

Where the soul need not repress

Its music lest it should not find

An echo in another's mind,

While the touch of Nature's art

Harmonizes heart to heart.

I leave this notice on my door

For each accustom'd visitor:—'

I am gone into the fields

To take what this sweet hour yields

.Reflection, you may come to-morrow;

Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.

You with the unpaid bill,

Despair,—You, tiresome verse-reciter,

Care,—I will pay you in the grave,

—Death will listen to your stave.

Expectation too, be off!

To-day is for itself enough.

Hope, in pity mock not Woe

With smiles, nor follow where

I go;Long having lived on your sweet food,

At length I find one moment's good

After long pain: with all your love,

Thisyou never told me of.'
Radiant Sister of the Day,

Awake! arise! and come away!

To the wild woods and the plains;

And the pools where winter rains

Image all their roof of leaves;

Where the pine its garland weaves

Of sapless green and ivy dun

Round stems that never kiss the sun;

Where the lawns and pastures be,

And the sandhills of the sea;

Where the melting hoar-frost wets

The daisy-star that never sets,

And wind-flowers, and violets

Which yet join not scent to hue,

Crown the pale year weak and new;

When the night is left behindIn the deep east,

dun and blind,And the blue noon is over us,

And the multitudinous

Billows murmur at our feet

Where the earth and ocean meet,

And all things seem only oneIn the universal sun.

Hymn of Pan

FROM the forests and highlands

We come, we come;

From the river-girt islands,

Where loud waves are dumb,

Listening to my sweet pipings.

The wind in the reeds and the rushes,

The bees on the bells of thyme,

The birds on the myrtle bushes,

The cicale above in the lime,

And the lizards below in the grass,

Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,

Listening to my sweet pipings.

liquid Peneus was flowing,

And all dark Tempe lay

In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing

The light of the dying day,

Speeded by my sweet pipings.

The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,

And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,

To the edge of the moist river-lawns,

And the brink of the dewy caves,

And all that did then attend and follow,

Were silent with love, as you now,

Apollo,

With envy of my sweet pipings.

Music, when Soft Voices die

MUSIC, when soft voices die,

Vibrates in the memory;Odours,

when sweet violets sicken,

Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,

Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,

Love itself shall slumber on.

To the Virgins, to make much of Time

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,

The higher he's a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse,

and worst

Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,

And while ye may, go marry:

For having lost but once your prime,

You may for ever tarry.

Dulce et Decorum est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags,
we cursed through sludge,Till on the haunting
flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep.
Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod.
All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue;
deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! —
An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.
—Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
—My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Ozymandias

MET a traveller from an antique land,

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,

The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear:

‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

’Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Adelstrop

Yes. I remember Adlestrop —

The name, because one afternoon

Of heat the express-train drew up there

Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed.

Some one cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came

On the bare platform.

What I sawWas Adlestrop —

only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,

No whit less still and lonely fair

Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and around him, mistier,

Farther and farther, all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire

The Charge of the Light Brigade

The Charge of the Light Brigade
HALF a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!’ he said;
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!
’Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d:
Their’s not to make reply,
Their’s not to reason why,
Their’s but to do and die:I
nto the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred.
Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder‘d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Khamosh Mohabbat

Teri Yaad Me Pal Pal Marta Hai Koi

Har Sans K Sath Tujhe Yad Karta Hai Koi

Fursat Mile To Tanhai Me Sochna

Kitni Khamosh Mohabbat Karta Hai Tum Se Koi

Dil Ki Aawaz

Dil Hi Dil Mein Ham Unse Pyar Karte Hain

Chup Chap Ham Unki Muhabbat Ka Intaizar Kartay Hain

Jin Rahon Par Unka Chalna Mushkil Hai

Unhi Rahon Par Ham Unka Intaizar Kartay Hain

Tarap K Daikho Kisi Ki Chahat Mein

Toh Pata Chalay Intaizar Kya Hota Hai

Mil Jaye Har Koi Yunhi Raho Mein

Toh Kaise Pata Chalay Pyar Kya Hota Hai

Ishq Aisa Karo Ke Dharkan Mein Utar Jaye

San's Bhi Lo Toh Khushbu Uski Aye

Pyar Ka Nasha Aankho Par Aisa Chaye

Baat Koi Bhi Ho Par Naam Usika Aaye

Dil Hi Dil Mein Ham Unse Pyar Karte

Dil Hi Dil Mein Ham Unse Pyar Karte Hain

Chup Chap Ham Unki Muhabbat Ka Intaizar Kartay Hain

Jin Rahon Par Unka Chalna Mushkil Hai

Unhi Rahon Par Ham Unka Intaizar Kartay Hain

Tarap K Daikho Kisi Ki Chahat Mein

Toh Pata Chalay Intaizar Kya Hota Hai

Mil Jaye Har Koi Yunhi Raho Mein

Toh Kaise Pata Chalay Pyar Kya Hota Hai

Ishq Aisa Karo Ke Dharkan Mein Utar Jaye

San's Bhi Lo Toh Khushbu Uski Aye

Pyar Ka Nasha Aankho Par Aisa Chaye

Baat Koi Bhi Ho Par Naam Usika Aaye

Dil Ki Aawaz

Tujhe Dekhun Or Aankhon Mein Bsa Loon

Teri Her Ada Ko Sheron Mein Saja Loon

Mager Door Rehta Hun Yehi Sochh Ker Saeed

Tujhe Pana Jeene Ka Maqsad Na Bana Loon

Maana K Taray Deed

Maana K Taray Deed K Kabil Ni Ha Hum

Tirchi Nazar Say Dekh Maggar Dak To Sahi

Dunia Baant Lain

Aao Saath Mill Kar Dunia Baant Lain

Aasman Aap Ka Sitare Hamare

Samundar Aap Ka Lehren Hamari

Aray Naraz Na Ho

Chalo Aisa Karte Hen

Sub Kuch Aap Ka Bus Aap Hamare

Koi Chupa Hey Dil K Ander

Hashar Bapa Hey Dil K Ander

Koi Chupa Hey Dil K Ander

Dard Utha Hey Dil K Ander

Kon Aya Hey Dil K Ander

Koi Khwahish Hey Ya Koi Khwab

Ya Andesha Hey Dil K Ander

Khalish Hey Kasak Hey Jalan Hey

Janey Kya Hey Dil K Ander

Dil Aeena Hey Toot Chuka Hey

Toota Hua Chehra Hey Dil K Ander

Kho Ker Mene Dunya Sey

Tuje Paya Hey Dil K Ander

Badal Gaya Hoga Magar Ab Tak

Wese Ka Wesa Hey Dil K Ander

Rukhsat Kia Yad Ko Dil Sey

Ab Khud Rehta Hey Dil K Ander

Tuje Apne Dil Sey Nikal Dun

Ik Khyal Ata Hey Dil K Ander

Ik Dunya Teri Muntazir Hey

Bhtakta Kya Hey Dil K Ander

EK Shakhs

Ek Shakhs Paas Reh K Bhi Samjha Nahi Mujhe

Iss Baat Ka Malal Hai Shikwa Nahi Mujhe

Main Usko Bewafai Ka Ilzaam Kaise Doon

Usne Tuo Ibtada Se Hi Chaha Nahi Mujhe

Pather Smjh Ker Paon Se Thoker Laga Diya

Afsoos Teri Ankh Ne Perkha Nahi Mujhe

Kya Kya Umeedien Bandh Ker Aya Tha Samne

Usne Tuo Ek Nazar Bhi Dekha Nahi Mujhe

Kab Theherna Tha Mujhko Her Waqt Uske Paass

Acha Hua Ke Usne Roka Nahi Mujhe

Kuch Pal

Is Taraf Na Nigha Ker K Main Zulfain Sawar Don

Mera Her Lafz Ho Ayina Tujhey Us Main Utaar Don

Tu Tamam Raat Ka Jaga Howa Main Tamam Shab Ka Thaka Ho

Khuch Deyre Yahin Bethja K Kuch Pal Tere Saath Guzar Don

Adhora Payar

Kaisay Kah Doo K Os Nay Chora Ha Mj Ko
Bat To Such Ha Magar Bat Ha Ruswai Ki

Meri Rooh Main Uter Sakain

Meri Rooh Main Uter Sakain Wo Muhabatain Mujhey Chahiyain

Jo Sarab Hoon Na Azaab Hoon Wo Rafaqattain Mujhey Chahiyin

Enhi Saatoon Ki Talash Hey Jo Clandron Sey Uter Sakain

Jo Samaey K Sat Guzer Gayeen Wohi Fursattain Mujhay Chahiyain

Kaheen Mil Sakain Tu Samait La Meyrey Rooz-O-Shab Ki Kahniyan

Jo Gubaar Waqat Main Chup Gayeen Wo Hikayatin Mujhiy Chahiyain

Jo Meri Shaboon Key Chiragh Thay Jo Meri Umeed Key Bagh Thay

Wohi Loog Hain Meri Aarzoo Wohi Sooratain Mujhay Chahiyain

Teri Qurbatain Nahi Chahiyain Meri Shayeri Key Mijaz Ko

Mujhay Faaslon Sey Doowam Dey Teri Furqatain Mujhay Chahiyain

Mujhay Oor Kuch Nahi Chahiye Ye Doowain Hain Merey Saaiban

Kari Dhoop Main Kaheen Mil Saakain Tu Yehi Chattain Mujhay Chahiyain

Yeh Janty Bhi Hain

Yeh Janty Bhi Hain Tumko Pana Hmary Bus Mein Nai

Na Jany Phir Q Tmhain Pany Ki Khuwhish Karty Hain

Ajab Taskeen Milti Hy Dilko Tmhary Sath Say

Tumharay Tasvar Mein Khoya Rehna

Tm Say Baatain Na Jany Q Bykhud Kiye Daita Hay Hmko

Tum Sada Pas Raho Hamaray Dil Ki Fakt Yeh Arzo Hay

Na Jany Q Dil Ko Es Arzo K Pora Hony Ka Yakeen Rehta Hay

Muhabaat Ki Kahani

Apni To Muhabaat Ke Itni Se Kahani Hai

Toti Hou Kashti Or Thehra Howa Pani Hai

Ik Phool Kitabon Me Dam Tor Chuka Hai

Kuch Yad Nahe Ata Ya Kis Ki Nishni Hai

Ab K Jab Tum Milo Gi

Aksar Me Sochta Tha

K Ab K Jab Tum Milo Gi Mujhe

Me Dil Ki Baten Tumhe Bataonga

Me Dharkano Ki Shikayaten Tumhe Sunao Ga

Magar Tum Aate To Honto Per Mohar Lag Jati

Tumhare Aane Se Goyaae Bhi Simat Jati

Aur Ab Na Furqat Hai Na Fursat Hai

Hazaron Baten Khayalo Me Tum Se Kerta Hon

Me Patyo Pe Gulabo Ke Raaz Likhta Hon

Meri Jan

Wo Shaks Meri Jan Bana Rehta Hay

Us Ka Yarana Meri Pehchan Bana Rehta Hai

Koi Muntazir Hai Us Ka Kitni Shiddat Se

Wo Janta Hai Magar Anjan Ban Rehta Hay