Strange, how this smooth and supple joint can be Put to so many purposes. It checks And rears the monsters of machinery And shapes the idle gallantries of sex. Those hands that light the fuse and dig the trap, Fingers that drive a world, or plunge through shame -- And yours, that lie so lightly in your lap, Are only blood and dust, all are the same. What mystery directs them through the world And gives these delicate bones so great a power? . . . You nod your head. You sleep. Your hands are curled Loosely, like some half-opened, perfumed flower. An hour ago they burned in mine and sent Armies with banners charging through my veins. Now they are cool and white; they rest content. Curved in a smile. . . . The mystery remains. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ORANGE PICKER by DAVID IGNATOW NICHARCHUS UPON PHIDON HIS DOCTOR by EZRA POUND AN ODE TO THE RAIN by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE SNOW-STORM by RALPH WALDO EMERSON EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY TO THE NIGHTINGALE by PHILIP AYRES PORTRAIT BY PICHER by FRANCES BAKER A REPLY TO AN IMITATION OF THE SECOND ODE OF HORACE by RICHARD BENTLEY |