If Bane of Joys be to get Blase

Joy of pleasure, a child of poor parents, Bliss alone founts from a perpetual spring, Joy fancies scores of fond uncles and aunts, Never lasts long the song they choose to sing. Being a moth made of mere moments nigh, It sleeps all day, to wake in glare of night, O Bliss, thou art a dancing butterfly That spreads its beauteous wings in Nature’s light. Perhaps I should call thee a honey bee That gently sucks nectar from a flower Beetle, nor ever a black bumblebee That plums and cherries a whole would devour. Thou art a Lark that no rain clouds would chase, The bane of joy of pleasure’s to be blasé. __________________________________________ Sonnet |04.10.2010| joy, pleasure, bliss Poet’s Note: Mundane joys and pleasures are carnal and they never last long, unlike bliss that founts from deep within. As a popular poetic imagination goes, an Indian Lark, called Chatak, drinks directly from raindrops falling in its widely open beak. It prefers to go thirsty but would never appease rain clouds.