Desolate Union
Thy hands, fragrant, on my breast--
The softest touch I ever savoured
And the scintilla in thy words,
O the memory of an experienced night.
As the gleeful bird on the highest bough
And whenever thou lookest through green and green
I roam from verduous shrub to shrub
Of thy garden immensely embellished.
Then thy flower thou tuck’st into my hand,
The fadeless pleasure I return to thee.
Copyright © Sarban Bhattacharya | Year Posted 2016
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment