Poems

Mirza Ghalib is considered one of the greatest Urdu poets of all time and his poems are widely read and appreciated even today. He was born in Agra in 1797 and was a versatile poet who wrote ghazals, nazms, and rubais with equal ease.…
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You sitting theretrying to dive into active silencebut your thoughts do not calm downYour mind swirls in problems, needs and goalsas if offense against of a swarm of piranhas you do not welcome thoughts…
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No matter how severe is the strideKeep walking until things are upsideNever, never give upis the only rule to abide!No matter how hollow seems the rideKeep moving until the gloom subsideNever, never give up…
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Because of you, in gardens of blossomingFlowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.I have forgotten your face, I no longerRemember your hands; how did your lipsFeel on mine?Because of you, I love the white statuesDrowsing in the parks,…
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Old me,Sans teeth, sans vision,Sans hope, sans missionEncumbered with indignitiesEncumbered with disabilitiesOld me!Old meOn the death bedSometimes pale, sometimes redVerily with no greedA little…
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The fountains mingle with the riverAnd the rivers with the ocean,The winds of heaven mix for everWith a sweet emotion;Nothing in the world is single,All things by a law divineIn one another's being mingle—Why not I with thine?See the…
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I met a traveller from an antique landWho said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,Tell that its…
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I heard a thousand blended notes,While in a grove I sate reclined,In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughtsBring sad thoughts to the mind.To her fair works did nature linkThe human soul that through me ran;And much it grieved my heart…
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This is the spot:—how mildly does the sunShine in between the fading leaves! the airIn the habitual silence of this woodIs more than silent: and this bed of heath,Where shall we find so sweet a resting-place?Come!—let me see thee sink into…
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And what is love? It is a doll dress’d upFor idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;A thing of soft misnomers, so divineThat silly youth doth think to make itselfDivine by loving, and so goes onYawning and doting a whole summer long,Till…
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