Robert Winkworth Norwood,
His Lady of the Sonnets
“ Yet Thou hast made Me Thy sword-blade— Sheathed, that its brightness Flash up to win, When the last sin Burns into whiteness. Hand that can smite, Hold the hilt tight, Draw, and strike faster! Strike with me, Lord! My soul Thy sword, And Thou its Master. Strike! till the day Grow from the gray Gloom of the peril ”
