Sonnet — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #75
Does it singe Thee, the passions fiery
That slip restraint in severe summer sun?
The flame-hounds that maul pitilessly
Our every daily common affection.
Does it numb Thee, the mortal winter,
When shadow-robed Thou must prowl
The crypts of heart housing our desire
And silently vie to slay them all?
Does it taint Thee, the impulse to mercy,
When with Thy smiting might we plead,
Appealing for last vestiges held dearly
And by Thy effacing will to be spared?
Oh mind not our shrinking only mortal,
At exercise of Thy love stark and immortal!