THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS

The touches of her hands are like the fall

Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down

The peach just brushes‘ gainst the garden wall;

The flossy fondling of the thistle-wisp

Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown

The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.

Soft as the falling of the dusk at night,

The touches of her hands, and the delight —

The touches of her hands!

The touches of her hands are like the dew

That falls so softly down no one e'er knew

The touch thereof save lovers like to one

Astray in lights where ranged Endymion.

O rarely soft, the touches of her hands,

As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands;

Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs;

Or — in between the midnight and the dawn,

When long unrest and tears and fears are gone —

Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.