My Lady's Hands

By R. H. House

My lady hath of charms her lion’s share;
Grace, beauty, wit and a sweet thoughtfulness,
Which rests serenely on her gentle face,
Sweet as the flowers are, and pure as air.

Yet, of all forms of beauty which she wears,
One is reserved for me alone—the best;
Her loving hand-clasps are for me; the rest
Not mine alone may be, the whole world shares.

Eye speaking unto eye must fail oftimes
To utter all the feelings love demands,
And loving letters leave to clasping hands
To speak the heart-throbs hid “between the lines.”

Old age must one day touch my darling’s brow,
Her dear face wrinkle, and her large eyes dim;
But then her hands will touch the hands of him
Who lives for her, with thrill as sweet as now.

Ah, when my spirit freed from earth stains lands
On those blest shores beyond Death’s narrow sea.
May the dear boon be granted unto me
To feel, close clasped in mine, my lady’s hands.

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