Sonnet Ten

What is the gain to have a humble maid
As a dweller of this heart adventurous?
That every moment fondly craves to raid
Untrodden meadows of her mind and trespass.

The meagre passion, say I thee, then bores
The lovers’ journey to the newer states,
As everything beforehand to the cores,
Seems known and hackneyed to these closest mates.

The blessing is that sweetest ire of thine,
For, stately love proves not the clear essence
With which true love can make the hearts to shine;
Two different treatments hail the coalescence.

The greater the hatred, greater the love seems be,
No sham resides so between thee and me.

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Sarban Bhattacharya

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The spurt of corporeal pleasure is like a restive brooklet that falls into the serene but colossal ocean of peaceful rapture of mind.
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