The Moor by Subroto Mukerji

Once, I touched her dimpled arm, In this, I thought, what was the harm? Lost was I from that hour on, To toss in bed from dusk to dawn. And as I walked the moor at night, She flew, angelic, to my side, She gave me strength to fight the thing I had no hope of overcoming. In darkness strode the cheerless plain, And lo! She was beside again, The breeze: it tossed her silken hair, As I burned on in my despair. Her perfect features warmed the night, As I fought me with all my might, I fain would kiss her lips so wild, as my senses swam, beguiled. The heather was so soft and warm, Where two could tarry till the dawn; I gently took her lovely hand, And saw her home as I’d not planned. T’was nothing but a dream, you see, A mind-trick weaved to torture me, For who can hope beyond his lot, And none can change the written plot. T’was but a dream my wishful mind, Conjured to torment me, unkind, And with the day it did disperse, to leave me scribbling gloomy verse. ©
Subroto Mukerji

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