THE PASSING OF A HEART

O touch me with your hands —

For pity's sake!

My brow throbs ever on with such an ache

As only your cool touch may take away;

And so, I pray

You, touch me with your hands!

Touch — touch me with your hands.—

Smooth back the hair

You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair

That I did dream its gold would wear alway,

And lo, to-day —

O touch me with your hands!

Just touch me with your hands,

And let them press

My weary eyelids with the old caress,

And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way,

That Death may say:

He touched her with his hands.