Not of your voice, now still, that used to sing,
I think,—now all your spirit's house lies dead—
Not of your little, lovely, eager head:
I think more of your hands than anything.…
Not of your face, sweet like a star, now lying
Immobile, nor those lips, no more replying
With unexpectedness,—those eyes, whence came
An eager dancing life could never tame.…
Oh, no, it is those little, lovely hands
That bring down all my hopes like sliding sands,
Those little, lovely hands, all arts in one,
In which the soul of motion lies undone.…
Hands that I caught, I kissed: hands that I pressed
Against my cheek…hands that could never rest;
Hands that lived by themselves; hands that were all
The soft, delicious names that love can call.…
Hands that touched love, now waxen in last sleep,
As chill as stone, mortised in final peace—
Oh, if I look long, fancy makes them leap.…
That they should stop, is proof all life must cease!
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