Thy hand hath stopped my fall and lifted me
To quell my tears, and cool my fervid cheeks;
Withal thy power hast thou known its plea:
To grant my heart this respite that it seeks.
Tomorrow, shall I write for thee, although
The Gods are neither fooled nor do they sleep,
But smile upon thee; surely do They know
I sing with joy their deeds an ne’er I weep.
But sweetly given me hast thou my voice,
And moved my spirit; for my hand is thine
To take thy gifted rest; though fear my choice:
That rest will fall to apathy’s decline.
Yet might for me despair make worse my plight;
Tomorrow, with thy gifts, for thee I write.
To thou, but when I see thee standing there;
My feelings, would I wish thee, hear me shout;
But when the fortunes of my heart despair,
May I thee touch, when can I not reach out?
So many times with thee my tongue were still,
And lay so quietly within its doubt;
Yet words would circle ’round my soul until
Thee sonnets write, when can I not reach out.
Yet words may leave my soul and heart as well;
And leave my hands as mute, my pen without;
How, soul and thought and heart, may I thee tell?
I play for thee when can I not reach out.
For, all my days I worship thee throughout;
In many ways, do I to thee reach out.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all: