Sweet hand! the sweet yet cruel bow thou art, From whence as one, five ivory arrows fly, So with five wounds at once I wounded lie Bearing in breast the print of every dart. Saint Francis had the like, yet felt no smart: Where I in living torments never die; His wounds were in his hands and feet where I All these same helpless wounds feel in my heart. Now as Saint Francis (if a saint) am I. The bow which shot these shafts a relic is; I mean the hand, which is the reason why So many for devotion thee would kiss, And I thy glove kiss as a thing divine; Thy arrows quiver, and thy relics shine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A RECEIPT TO CURE THE VAPOURS by MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU SPANISH WINGS: A LEAF FROM A LOG BOOK by H. BABCOCK PSALM 37. NOLI AEMULARI by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE IN MEMORIAM A.M.W.; SEPTEMBER, 1910 (FOR A SOLEMN MUSIC) by GORDON BOTTOMLEY A SOUL'S LOSS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |