|ELCore.Net > Poetry > Catholic Poets > Poems of Ernest Dowson|
|Ad Manus Puellae|
I was always a lover of ladies hands!|
Or ever mine heart came here to tryst,
For the sake of your carved white hands commands;
The tapering fingers, the dainty wrist;
The hands of a girl were what I kissed.
I remember an hand like a fleur-de-lys|
When it slid from its silken sheath, her glove;
With its odours passing ambergris:
And that was the empty husk of a love.
Oh, how shall I kiss your hands enough?
They are pale with the pallor of ivories;|
But they blush to the tips like a curled sea-shell:
What treasure, in kingly treasuries,
Of gold, and spice for the thurible,
Is sweet as her hands to hoard and tell!
I know not the way from your finger-tips,|
Nor how I shall gain the higher lands,
The citadel of your sacred lips:
I am captive still of my pleasant bands,
The hands of a girl, and most your hands.
|Previous | Table of Contents | Next|
|Webpage © 2002 ELC
Lane Core Jr. (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Created November 12, 2002; not revised.