The two hands

A large brown hand by labour stained Four snowy fingers prest, As though a swarthy Cyclops strained A white maid to his breast.

And fondly did that brown hand hold Those fingers white as snow, As though it were a link of gold That would not let them go.

Time passes on. The two hands clasp Another newly given: As though they’d found an angel’s grasp To draw them up to heaven.

Once more the brown hand and the white Are linked. So cold! so fast!— As though true loving hearts unite More closely at the last.