My hands were loved of many, when I was young -- Not for the beauty of the flesh alone -- But, like a harp whose quivering strings had sung A music that at last became its own, Their slenderness was eloquent of blood Seeking a joy not ever manifest. My lips and eyes never betrayed my mood As they did. And my lovers from my breast Sometimes have turned to kiss these hands again That were to me a perfidy and no prize. Is happiness so small a thing --? and pain So great a splendor to a lover's eyes? -- Could they not love my joyousness, but only My hands -- that are so terrible, so lonely? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: CHARLES WARREN, THE SHERIFF by EDGAR LEE MASTERS VERSES TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUCHESS OF YORK by JOHN DRYDEN CHRISTMAS CAROL by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR LINES TO A MOVEMENT IN MOZART'S E-FLAT SYMPHONY by THOMAS HARDY HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY: 5 by EZRA POUND THE KLONDIKE by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |