Had to ripen when eyes were wet
And prayers were vain in their wild demands
For one warm touch of your beautiful hands.

Beautiful Hands!--O Beautiful Hands!
Could you reach out of the alien lands
Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night
Only a touch--were it ever so light--
My heart were soothed, and my weary brain
Would lull itself into rest again;
For there is no solace the world commands
Like the caress of your beautiful hands.

. . . . . . . .


Violently winking at the mist that blurs my sight,
I regretfully awaken to the here and now. And is
it possible, I sorrowfully muse, that all this glory
can have fled away?--that more than twenty long,
long years are spread between me and that happy
night? And is it possible that all the dear old faces
--Oh, quit it! quit it! Gather the old scraps up and
wad 'em back into oblivion, where they belong!

Yes, but be calm--be calm! Think of cheerful
things. You are not all alone. BILLY'S living yet.

I know--and six feet high--and sag-shouldered--
and owns a tin and stove-store, and can't hear