Hands.

There are hands we fondly cherish Not alone for form and grace, But the loving deeds that mold them, Place them next a sainted face. They can soothe as if with magic, When the fever-furies rage; Their caresses, unobstrusive, E’en a heartache can assuage. Hands can emphasize a welcome, Far beyond the gifts of speech, And their language, plain and truthful, Doubt did never yet impeach. Aye! there’s feeling warm and tender, Ever pulsing in the palm, In whose kindly, silent pressure Sorrow finds a healing balm. Love’s sweet mysteries course their fingers, For their lightest touch of tips Has the secret gift of thrilling, Like affection’s clinging lips. They can knit with mystic flosses Such a net about the heart— Earth has naught so near a heaven As this thraldom doth impart. Hands have heart-beats throbbing through them And the lightning flash of thought; ’Tis by such that grand impulsions Into living deeds are wrought. Hands may be a sculptor’s pattern, Tipped with smooth, shell-tinted nails, Yet convey a touch, repulsive As of scaly serpent trails. If the soul is gross and selfish, There’s no art the trait conceals, But the hand in mold or clasping, To the sentient heart reveals. Idle hands are limp and nerveless, Lack expression, fervor, grasp— They receive nor give sensation, Simply lie within your clasp. Hands may flash a wealth of jewels, Yet display a pauper soul— God inscribes these outspread tablets From the spirit’s hidden scroll.