With Her Face

With her face between his hands! Was it any wonder she Stood atiptoe tremblingly? As his lips along the strands Of her hair went lavishing Tides of kisses, such as swing Love's arms to like iron bands.-- With her face between his hands!

And the hands--the hands that pressed The glad face--Ah! where are they? Folded limp, and laid away Idly over idle breast? He whose kisses drenched her hair, As he caught and held her there, In Love's alien, lost lands, With her face between his hands?

Was it long and long ago, When her face was not as now, Dim with tears? nor wan her brow As a winter-night of snow? Nay, anointing still the strands Of her hair, his kisses flow Flood-wise, as she dreaming stands, With her face between his hands.