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...PLAYING SOMEONE ELSE'S PIANO by KAREN SWENSON HIS OWNE EPITAPH by FRANCOIS VILLON WRITTEN IN NORTHAMPTON COUNTY ASYLUM by JOHN CLARE THE MAID OF NEIDPATH by WALTER SCOTT IMAGES: 6 by RICHARD ALDINGTON |