A CLASP OF HANDS

Soft, small, and sweet as sunniest flowers

That bask in heavenly heat

When bud by bud breaks, breathes, and cowers,

Soft, small, and sweet.

A babe's hands open as to greet

The tender touch of ours

And mock with motion faint and fleet

The minutes of the new strange hours

That earth, not heaven, must mete;

Buds fragrant still from heaven's own bowers,

Soft, small, and sweet.