Classic Poem

Beauty is of your hands: yet have I known
Neither their warmth of clasping nor caress.
Your candid fingers laid upon my own
I have not felt, nor of their tenderness.
I only caught a music in the tone
With which you speak when saying " You " and " Yes, "
(Your mouth a cercis flower, passion-blown)
The while my pulses beat, now more, now less.

But most had I been favored when your eyes
Made luminous the gold-brown of their smile.
Then woke the mystery of old surmise,
And hope came breaking from some distant isle.
But oh, your heart! — the courage in me dies
Probing to that deep centre, mile on mile!