Wednesday, Mar 25, 2026
📍 Lahore | ☀️ 26°C | AQI: 3 (Moderate)

Filters:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Kubla Khan

November 18, 2025 — Poem Of The Day — By: Jarida Recommends
Your Phone Is Ruining Dinner

Your Phone Is Ruining Dinner

November 18, 2025 — Opinion — By: Anasha Khan
15 terrorists killed in intelligence operations in KP

15 terrorists killed in intelligence operations in KP

November 18, 2025 — Latest News — By: Jarida Report
Lawyers in Lahore organize a rally against 27th Amendment

Lawyers in Lahore organize a rally against 27th Amendment

November 18, 2025 — Latest News — By: Jarida Report
Social protection wallets introduced by BISP for recipients

Social protection wallets introduced by BISP for recipients

November 18, 2025 — Latest News — By: Jarida Report
Interim FEMA head steps down after a concerning six months

Interim FEMA head steps down after a concerning six months

November 18, 2025 — Latest News — By: Jarida Report
[1:45 PM, 11/17/2025] +92 321 4424568: Sitting between the sea and the buildings He enjoyed painting the sea’s portrait. But just as children imagine a prayer Is merely silence, he expected his subject To rush up the sand, and, seizing a brush, Plaster its own portrait on the canvas. So there was never any paint on his canvas Until the people who lived in the buildings Put him to work: “Try using the brush As a means to an end. Select, for a portrait, Something less angry and large, and more subject To a painter’s moods, or, perhaps, to a prayer.” How could he explain to them his prayer That nature, not art, might usurp the canvas? He chose his wife for a new subject, Making her vast, like ruined buildings, As if, forgetting itself, the portrait Had expressed itself without a brush. Slightly encouraged, he dipped his brush In the sea, murmuring a heartfelt prayer: “My soul, when I paint this next portrait Let it be you who wrecks the canvas.” The news spread like wildfire through the buildings: He had gone back to the sea for his subject. Imagine a painter crucified by his subject! Too exhausted even to lift his brush, He provoked some artists leaning from the buildings To malicious mirth: “We haven’t a prayer Now, of putting ourselves on canvas, Or getting the sea to sit for a portrait!” Others declared it a self-portrait. Finally all indications of a subject Began to fade, leaving the canvas Perfectly white. He put down the brush. At once a howl, that was also a prayer, Arose from the overcrowded buildings. They tossed him, the portrait, from the tallest of the buildings; And the sea devoured the canvas and the brush As though his subject had decided to remain a prayer.

The painter

November 17, 2025 — Poem Of The Day — By: Jarida Recommends
Those who cannot change their minds

Those who cannot change their minds

November 17, 2025 — Quote of the Day — By: Jarida Recommends

Saudi Arabia bans ill pilgrims from performing Hajj in 2026

November 17, 2025 — Latest News — By: Jarida Report

Don’t Miss Our Latest Updates