The Wounded Angel (Hugo Simberg), Sonnet #316

We found her nearly conscious under the willow,
Her wings so wet she must have come from the river.
We ripped a strip from her gown's hem and wrapped her brow.
A gash meant to us someone could not forgive her.
We dared not wipe the blood from her broken pinions,
Afraid that it might make us bleed or break our hands.
We remembered stories about the Lord's minions --
How their feathers had beaten mountains into sands.
Our minds blazed awe. She whispered, "No superstitions."
We cut two branches from an ash and made a chair
To carry her. She rose and sat, like light, like air.
She clutched five snowdrops we had taken from her hair.
We asked her how we should go. She pointed
At the river. "There," she said, "We are anointed."

Love at the Fountain of Life (Giovanni Segantini), Sonnet #160

Beside the fountain a stunted, misshapen tree
Is about to take the lovers' testimony,
One secret word the woman will laughingly carve
Deep into its flaking and lichen-mottled bark.
This is long before the ages when men will starve
In deserts, murder prophets, need to build an ark.
An angel dutifully guards the fountain; bored,
Lonely, she hardly notices lovers approach.
She remains unseen until the word is scored,
A blasphemy deserving the sternest reproach,
Which, alas, it's not given her to deliver.
Her wings shield her own eyes from their eternal shame.
"Drink here," she says, "from this fountain, this life-giver."
With a sip each lover forgets the other's name.