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.SourceThe script ran 0.006 seconds.
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