HOT hands that yearn to touch her flower-like face, With fingers spread, I set you like a weir To stem this ice-cold stream in its career, -- And chill your pulses there a little space; Brown hands, what right have you to claim the grace To touch her head so infinitely dear? Learn courteously to wait and to revere, Lest haply ye be found in sorry case, Hot hands that yearn! But if ye bring her flowers at her behest, And hold her crystal water from the well, And bend a bough for shade when she will rest, And if she find you fain and teachable, That flower-like face, perchance, ah! who can tell In your embrace may some sweet day be pressed, Hot hands that yearn! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...STANZAS TO THE PO by GEORGE GORDON BYRON HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY: 8. BRENNBAUM by EZRA POUND THE OWL (1) by ALFRED TENNYSON MAUD MULLER by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE SIEGE OF VIRE by OLIVIER BASSELIN PSALM 25. AD TE DOMINE by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE NAMBY-PAMBY. A PANEGYRIC ON THE NEW VERSIFICATION by HENRY CAREY (1687-1743) OUTWARD BOUND by MAUDE E. COLE ON ANNEL-SEED ROBIN, THE HERMOPHRODITE; EPITAPH by CHARLES COTTON |