Sonnet IV: Her Hand

Yet lightly, and demure in size, doth touch
This hand, that doth caress unlike mine own.
Not slight, and yet not strong, but sure of such
As it commandeth, earnestly, then coy.

As teareth me away from my command
So might I fall, as willing, from my throne.
And dareth my resolve, that it withstand
Delightful magic, as it might deploy.

Its form, as true, yet different from its brother
Whom it, mercilessly, hath outshone.
Hath God imbued it, greatly, with another
Element, diverse, as would employ

Such ease–an action planned,  would it postpone;
That please, from out thine hand, thy love enjoy?

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:


Part 11: (Shakespearean blankverse)

Divinely “stepping rhythm:” blankverse–thou,
Most courtly poetess, to me once wrote–
To promenade as flawlessly anon.
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