Hands
The little hands too soft and white
To have known more laborious hours
Than those which die upon a night
Of kindling wine and fading flowers;
The little hands that I have kissed,
Finger by finger, to the tips,
And delicately about each wrist
Have set a bracelet with my lips;
Dear soft white little morbid hands,
Mine all one night, with what delight
Shall I recall in other lands,
Dear hands, that you were mine one night!
poem by Arthur Symons
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