SIXTY NINTH SONNE
I love the scent of loamy soil, the smell
Of the cool earth when turned beneath the spade;
Its fragrance is a richness; few can tell
The thoughts inspired by that which doth pervade
The grassy sod. Not of dry bones deep laid,
Or mould’ring flesh, no charnel smell is this,
No withering breath from matter half-decayed;
But rather like the memory of a kiss
That lingers on the lips, as though to miss
The fullest savour of caress the mouth
Were loth indeed; or the elusive bliss
Or subtly perfumed zephyrs from the south.
I love it for association’s sake;
It more for laughter than for tears doth make!
20. 11. 29