XIV
Dear hands, forgiving hands,
There is no speech so sure as thing.
Lips falter with so much
To tell, eyes fill with thoughts I scarce divine,
But thy least touch
Soul understands.
Dear giving, taking hands,
There are no gifts so free as thine.
One last gem from the heart of the mine,
One last cup from the veins of the vine,
From the rose to the wind one last sweet breath,
Then poverty, and death!
But thy dear palms
Are richest empty, asking alms.
Dear hands, forgiving hands,
There is no speech so sure as thing.
Lips falter with so much
To tell, eyes fill with thoughts I scarce divine,
But thy least touch
Soul understands.
Dear giving, taking hands,
There are no gifts so free as thine.
One last gem from the heart of the mine,
One last cup from the veins of the vine,
From the rose to the wind one last sweet breath,
Then poverty, and death!
But thy dear palms
Are richest empty, asking alms.
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