How cold and squalor these hands be,
neglected, but for their vain remorse;
beauty hath not been given due caress,
and sorrow hath not tasted of comfort;
by right, these hands must hold her soft,
ply her in supple shades of velvet touch,
or break away when she is yet untamed,
as only her consent may shape my grasp.
In reaching too far, was she then moved,
as these hands allowed for her wilding;
with gentlest hold, did I bear her heart,
yet with tremble, she fell away too soon;
had I but gripped her with more resolve,
she would be, still, in my hands’ caress;
but, alas, her fragile form stood uneasy,
’til these hands held only echoed sighs.