Author Ernest Hemingway Desire and All the sweet pulsing aches And gentle hurtings That were you, Are gone into the sullen dark. Now in the night you come unsmiling To lie with me A dull, cold, rigid bayonet On my hot-swollen, throbbing soul. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 Average: 4 (1 vote) Rate Log in or register to post comments