Strange

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Strange

Sonnet- An Invocation to the Master #257

Strange is the manner of Thy loving,
An anvil for bed and hammer to kiss,
A furnace to ease passions growing
And begin again our heated ardours.

A kneading and a folding unequalled
Where my sky must bend to soil,
Mind assume silence of the void
And heart must every quiver quell.

What offence of cell and thought
That their borders must thus fall,
In crude bludgeoning they are caught
Without reprieve or breathing interval.

Oh blunt the knife-edge of Thy passions,
I shall never deem Thou lovest me less!