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.
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