Fragrant Still

Ah, My place of birth!
Lilacs lavender the same
Perfuming the earth.
From the arbor there,
Breathes the lusciousness
of grapes,
Purpling all the air.
From the garden bare,
Comes the smell of mint
and thyme,
Through the years still rare.
But this attar faint...
This more subtle than
them all?
This fit for a Saint?
Rose of scent divine...
In your hair that small,
gay bloom,
Long-gone mother mine!

by Everett F. Briggs

Other poems of EVERETT F. BRIGGS (2)

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