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...THE GENERAL PUBLIC by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET ON TALK OF PEACE AT THIS TIME by ROBERT FROST GOSSAMER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON JONES'S PRIVATE ARGYMENT by SIDNEY LANIER YOUNG LINCOLN by EDWIN MARKHAM DOMESDAY BOOK: AT NICE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS JOHN WILKES BOOTH AT THE FARM (JANUARY 12, 1848) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: THE VILLAGE ATHEIST by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |