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James Whitcomb Riley - The Touches Of Her Hand
Work rating: Low

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 fondlings 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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