Episode of Hands

The unexpected interest made him flush. Suddenly, he seemed to forget the pain,– Consented–and held out One finger from the others.

The gash was bleeding, and a shaft of sun That glittered in and out among the wheels, Fell lightly, warmly, down into the wound.

And as the fingers of the factory owner’s son, That knew a grip for books and tennis As well as one for iron and leather,– As his taut, spare finger wound the gaze Around the thick bed of the wound, His own hands seemed to him Like wings of butterflies Flickering in sunlight over summer fields.

The knots and notches–many in the wide Deep hand that lay in his,–seemed beautiful. They were like the marks of wild ponies’ play,– Bunches of new green breaking a hard turf.

And factory sounds and factory thoughts Were banished from him by that larger, quieter hand That lay in his with the sun upon it. And as the bandage knot was tightened The two men smiled into each other’s eyes.