Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXIV

Let the world's sharpness like a clasping knifeShut in upon itself and do no harmIn this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,And let us hear no sound of human strifeAfter the click of the shutting. Life to life-I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm,And feel as safe as guarded by a charmAgainst the stab of worldlings, who if rifeAre weak to injure. Very whitely stillThe lilies of our lives may reassureTheir blossoms from their roots, accessibleAlone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer,Growing straight, out of man's reach, on the hill.God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.