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James Whitcomb Riley - The Passing Of A Heart
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O touch me with your hands--
                          For pity`s sake!
  My brow throbs ever on with such an ache
  As only your cool touch may take away;
  And so, I pray
              You, touch me with your hands!

  Touch--touch me with your hands.--
                          Smooth back the hair
  You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair
  That I did dream its gold would wear alway,
  And lo, to-day--
                  O touch me with your hands!

  Just touch me with your hands,
                          And let them press
  My weary eyelids with the old caress,
  And lull me till I sleep.  Then go your way,
  That Death may say:
                      He touched her with his hands.
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