Holy Sonnet 184
How I recall my thralldom as a man!
Base troths with idols, rituals of lust,
Hellish haven, hot blood; too late thou learn'st
Drowning desire and pleasure-profaned ban.
But sin may lead where virtue never can:
I - burning, thirsting, bleeding, dying - thirst
For love. Abandoned I, by mandrake curs't,
My lech'rous limbs cry out t'embrace a lamb.
Dear God! My bed a beam becomes. Blessed
Light, in which tearful floods and baser blood
Are rudely mixt, melded, hammered into good,
Grant unto me eternal love and rest!
Our natures thus cros't, I, like bedded bride,
Delight to sleep here, ever at Thy side.
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