As perfect thee, thine image as thine art:
Sublime, as sculpture’s ideations see;
Though mere in thought do such ideals exist,
My hands believe perfection thus to be.
Do not I trust this truth my hands impart
When next they touch conviction wrought of fire:
This certitude of which mine eyes insist
When they confirm withal my hands acquire;
Wherefore our brothers, hath He given heart
That for the other, petuous, will burn;
For she, from whom our brothers’ ribs consist,
Do all of us, this undespoilt, yearn.
For one: with art, we praise His strength thereof;
The other: doth enlist with us His love.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
…and it just keeps getting better. That sense of balance you have is just amazing.
I was reading this aloud again this morning. It is wonderful sounding.
Yes, I’m reading this again this morning. I have to get my fill after my sad hiatus over Christmas. I am looking forward to reading this series as a series discrete.
These, I believe, were over punctuated. I have discovered that they read better this way. So I have done to a few of this series this morning