Sonnet Cli: Poem by George Henry Boker

I could not hope that one so rarely fair
As thou, could firmly brook this shameful brand,
This bare exposure on the martyr's stand,
Did not Love keep thee in his holy care.
The smoke rolls upward and the faggots flare;
But through the flame he reaches in his hand,
And thy white body, by his pinions fanned,
Suffers no stain nor blemish anywhere.
Thus men make angels from our mortal clay;
Love works his purpose through his craftsman, Hate,
And Love's design seems rounded as by Fate.
So thou, who passest through the fire away,
Meek, patient culprit of a savage date,
Shalt shine in sainthood at a later day.