  The touches of her hands are like the fall Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall; The flossy fondling of the thistle-wisp Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp. Soft as the falling of the dusk at night, The touches of her hands, and the delight— The touches of her hands! The touches of her hands are like the dew That falls so softly down no one e'er knew The touch thereof save lovers like to one Astray in lights where ranged Endymion. O rarely soft, the touches of her hands, As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands; Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs; Or—in between the midnight and the dawn, When long unrest and tears and fears are gone— Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes. |
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