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...A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT SLEEPY HOLLOW by WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING (1817-1901) MY SHADOW by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON SIC VITA by HENRY DAVID THOREAU PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 68. AL-KADAR by EDWIN ARNOLD THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY; DOMESTIC LEGEND OF THE REIGN OF QUEEN ANNE by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM |