Oh, miracle of love! That death, which seems <br />So hard a master when he holds his prize, <br />Whom no cajoleries, nor stratagems <br />Of beauty's power, nor wisdom's sophistries, <br />E'er turned aside from his appointed way, <br />But falcon--like, who with relentless foot <br />And pinions spread above his captured prey, <br />Holds his high way in heaven absolute, <br />Nor heeds our questionings: that this same death <br />Should have grown soft and yielded to love's tears, <br />And drawn his talons from their fleshly sheath, <br />And spared awhile his harvest of the years! <br />Oh, miracle in sooth renowned above <br />All other wonders of miraculous love!<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/natalia-s-resurrection-sonnet-xxv/
