There lies a way to heaven by that lake.
My sickness gone, I fear no chilly mist;
A redwing calls me, dawn is now awake,
The fragrant autumn air I can’t resist.

There is my home far from this cottage small,
Where honeysuckles with gold aspens mate,
And purple sweetgums love their mother Fall,
Oblivious of their harsh wintry fate.

November Rain! Your icy arrows smart
Those scarlet berries on the woody hill.
Let the thrush sing once more till I depart,
Let his mellifluous throat subtly trill.

True is this blazing bower—October’s art,
A timeless souvenir stashed in my heart.



Sarban Bhattacharya is a 22-year-old poet and classicist currently pursuing a master’s degree in English literature.

Views expressed by individual poets and writers on this website and by commenters do not represent the views of the entire Society. The comments section on regular posts is meant to be a place for civil and fruitful discussion. Pseudonyms are discouraged. The individual poet or writer featured in a post has the ability to remove any or all comments by emailing submissions@ with the details and under the subject title “Remove Comment.”

4 Responses

  1. Sally Cook

    Lovely. A sad but sensitive comment from one so young, Sarban..
    Beautiful illustration by Cole as well, thanks to Evan.
    Hope to see more of your work !

  2. Paul Oratofsky

    I find this poem beautiful. Its language and sounds are delicious. Like a delicate painting. The music stumbles a bit for me in the the last two lines of the third stanza, but not enough to damage the poem. Thanks for this.

  3. C.B. Anderson

    A nice sonnet, in which the nostalgia is almost, but not quite, overdone. In line 8, I think that “Oblivious to” would be slightly more idiomatic than “Oblivious of.” But that’s a small thing.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.