The Fire's Touch

Though the heart be still as loving
There is at once a sadness in me
For at the summit of my joy
There strikes a merciless fury.
This soul, this heart is wearily worn
And deprived of the cure I need
When in such anguish, such pain and scorn,
When on the thorns of life I bleed.
Standing on that wide shore alone
Upon the gallows of my mind
I cannot but heave a sigh or groan
To think! — To think! — To think! — O Kind!
To think, O Kind! O King! O God!
To think! To think! To think! My God!

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This entry was posted in Sonnets.

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