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...CONTRA MORTEM: THE SUMMER by HAYDEN CARRUTH BONDAGE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON POSTHUMOUS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SONNET TO THOSE WHO SEE BUT DARKLY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SURFACES AND MASKS; 30 by CLARENCE MAJOR |