He Wishes A Garden For His Beloved Poem by james watkin

These hands of mine, from which you snatched
One stem of my heart's speaking
Vow to enlarge on what, in rounds
Of courting leaves much unbloomed.
These hands, these hands, two arid plains
For what's left of praise, reeking
Pant for their tilth's wringing, for what's
Of self-raised devotions perfumed.

Put them to task, these clasping vines
Your slim waist that circumscribe.
Leave them to toil, what in your own
Have their strongest hopes rooted.
Lifting green uprights of bough-love;
As 'twere ours for to subscribe!
As much can Sky accomadate
In what is fair and fruited.