RDW's poems

7- Aromatherapy

Her arms once circled in my collar’s stead.
Where now her touch, her taste, her scent, her sound?
Her cushioned breast that bore my weighted head?
Her hands that scratched my ears? Where are they found?

Oh rub the oil where once she stroked my mane,
and sing.  Oh please!  Can you not sing?
She sang such songs as I still hear — again
I hear the echo — but have lost the ring.

My life was lived one night in that bright wood.
One hour I was the joy of joy’s own Queen.
Her lips caressed my passion where I stood
‘til I made bray – made bray – sublime – obscene.

Now rub — ‘til you rub out this mania.
And yet I call her name:  Titania!

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