SONNET

God made my shivering nerves His human lyre,

        A lyre whose curves in angels' faces end.

When God doth sing the song's invisible fire

        And half‑visible wings over it bend.

Fountain of incorruptible desire!

        Gold‑misted green isle where my bark doth tend!

My soul, rich with electedness, doth tire

        My sense of me with aches with God to blend.

But lo! to live is to be blent with God

        Already. We need nought but life, all life.

Pain, evil, hate, lust, treachery, the rod

        Of custom, the bypath of dreams, the knife

Grief hideth till it cut her, the delight

        Of death - all these are God's willed spite.