Sonnet V
I stand awed by the greatness of your soul;
that you who are indeed true nobility
would stoop into the mire to such as me
to lift me, as you have, and backward roll
the heavy weight of sorrow's bitter toll.
Ah, love, I am not worthy, not of thee;
I know naught of your generosity.
I long content to mete out but the dole.
I pray you of my worth do not despair,
for silver by a pearl does richer grow;
and one who knew for long your touch, your care,
who lay as instrument beneath your bow,
would somehow grow more pure, more kind, more fair.
Ah, love! 'T is this, your love, I wish to show.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, 1987
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