Iii

Two flower-soft fists of conquering clutch, Two creased and dimpled wrists, That match, if mottled overmuch, Two flower-soft fists--

What heart of man dare hold the lists Against such odds and such Sweet vantage as no strength resists?

Our strength is all a broken crutch, Our eyes are dim with mists, Our hearts are prisoners as we touch Two flower-soft fists.