  I Soft, small, and sweet as sunniest flowers That bask in heavenly heat When bud by bud breaks, breathes, and cowers, Soft, small, and sweet. A babe's hands open as to greet The tender touch of ours And mock with motion faint and fleet The minutes of the new strange hours That earth, not heaven, must mete; Buds fragrant still from heaven's own bowers, Soft, small, and sweet. II A velvet vice with springs of steel That fasten in a trice And clench the fingers fast that feel A velvet vice— What man would risk the danger twice, Nor quake from head to heel? Whom would not one such test suffice? In sight of Paradise, If both a babe's closed fists conceal A velvet vice. III Two flower-soft fists of conquering clutch, Two creased and dimpled wrists, That match, if mottled overmuch, Two flower-soft fists— What heart of man dare hold the lists Against such odds and such Sweet vantage as no strength resists? Our strength is all a broken crutch, Our eyes are dim with mists, Our hearts are prisoners as we touch Two flower-soft fists. |
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