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 fulness 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.
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