by Patience Worth
What is the bond, the shackle, yea,
The armlet which binds thee to thy love?
No mighty hand may shatter it;
No tongue with deceits betipped-
Nothing may disturb
That peaceful, peaceful bondage.
Unfretting, man doth wear it!
He is the happiest, who weareth
The heaviest enchainment.
Lo, love comes each morrow like the sun.
Yea! love is the sun which betips
The morning of each soul, and within
Her hand doth she to hold a casket-
Bearing earth a gift.
Yea, it is a fettersome thing!
Yet earth holdeth forth her hands
In pleading that she be enchained,
And feedeth her heart upon the stuff.
Is this bondage? Nay, 'tis the exultance
Of service! Yea, and that service
Moveth upon the legs which be-Devotion.
Last updated January 14, 2019