Classic Poem

My arms were always quiet,
Close, and never freed.
I was furled like a banner,
Enfolded like a seed.

I thought, when Love shall strike me,
Each arm will start and spring,
Unloosen like a petal,
And open like a wing.

O Love — my arms are lifted,
But not to sway and toss;
They strain out wide and wounded,
Like arms upon a cross.