WHY hast Thou given me these gyves to bear, And why this garment of white flame to wear? Anhungered for immortal beauty, must I feed my longing on this burning dust? Loving the lilies, mid the tares I go,— Why dost Thou plague Thy dearest angel so? Cast in Thine image, moulded likest Thee, Thy donzellon, Thy troubadour to be, The dreamer of the rapture at the core Of Thine own heart,—Oh! why, then, evermore Must I pollute my fantasy unwist With strange dim sin,—Love the Somnambulist, Driven to sacrilege on mine adored?— It is not well, it is not well, O Lord! I yearn to Thee from out the blinding sands; And lo! Thy stigmata upon mine hands. Yet, as I pray, my feet take hold on hell. It is not well, O Lord, it is not well! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 20 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE WIND AND THE MOON by GEORGE MACDONALD JEWISH HYMN IN BABYLON by HENRY HART MILMAN CHAMPAGNE, 1914-1915 by ALAN SEEGER GREENES FUNERALLS: SONNET 11 by RICHARD BARNFIELD A PREPARATORY HYMNE TO THE WEEK OF MEDITACIONS UPON, & DEVOUT EXERCISE by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |