Her Hand.

       In silence I take her hand

where lies it so apparent on her lap,

pressing it, proclaiming it beautiful

in voice of stupefied simplicity.

Yet, not a loveliness my act inspires,

but compassion at the imperfection;

for, though there is no dearer hand to hold,

it is red and raw with the winter cold,

coarsened, unqueenly and sadly human.