Slow MoverUpon the Absent Beloved
I bless the hour, though it wounded me,
when first my eyes were taught to look and grieve,
and every joy I thought my heart could weave
was turned to golden thread of misery.
For Beauty came, and with her majesty
made captive all I had believed was free;
yet in that chain my soul learned how to see
the heaven hidden in captivity.
O gentle light, too distant to be mine,
you burn within me like a sacred flame;
I flee from you, yet follow all the same.
Thus love makes bitter water into wine:
I die of longing, yet I live by this—
the wound itself has taught my heart its bliss.
Author’s Note: My attempts at a poem in the style of Petrarch
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