(1849-1916)
Her Beautiful Hands
O YOUR HANDS --they are strangely fair!
Fair --for the jewels that sparkle there, --
Fair --for the witchery of the spell
That ivory keys alone can tell;
But when their' delicate touches rest
Here in my own do I love them best,
As I clasp with eager, acquisitive spans
My glorious treasure of beautiful hands!
Marvelous --wonderful --beautiful hands!
They can coax roses to bloom in the strands
Of your brown tresses;and ribbons will twine,
Under mysterious touches of thine,
Into such knots as entangle the soul
And fetter the heart under such a control
As only the strength of my love understands--
My passionate love for your beautiful hands.
As I remember the first fair touch
Of those beautiful hands that I love so much,
I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled,
Kissing the glove that I found unfilled --
When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow,
As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it now!". . .
And dazed and alone in a dream I stand,
Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand.
When first I loved, in the long ago,
And held your hand as I told you so--
Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss
And said "I could die for a hand like this!"
Little I dreamed love's fullness yet
Had to ripen when eyes were wet
And prayers were vain in their wild demands
For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.
Beautiful Hands! --O Beautiful Hands!
Could you reach out of the alien lands
Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night
Only a touch --were it ever so light --
My heart were soothed, and my weary brain
Would lull itself into rest again;
For there is no solace the world commands
Like the caress of your beautiful hands.
Unless
WHO has not wanted does not guess
What plenty is.--Who has not groped
In depths of doubt and hopelessness
Has never truly hoped.--
Unless, sometimes, a shadow fails
Upon his mirth, and veils his sight,
And from the darkness drifts the light
Of love at intervals.
And that most dear of everything,
I hold, is love; and who can sit
With lightest heart, and laugh and sing,
Knows not the worth of it.--
Unless, in some strange throng, perchance,
He feels how thrilling sweet it is,
One yearning look that answers his--
The troth of glance and glance.
Who knows not pain, knows not, alas!
What pleasure is--Who knows not of
The bitter cup that will not pass,
Knows not the taste of love.
O souls that thirst, and hearts that fast,
And natures faint with famishing,
God lift and lead and safely bring
You to your own at last!
Sage and Rosemary