TO L. V. B .

Two soft and helpless hands, not cold but white,
They nestled in her lap confidingly;
With gentle claspings and caresses slight,
They ever seemed embracing timidly,
And shrinking lest they should betray to sight,
Some loving secret held too daintily.

There were pink markings of the silken palm,
Through which the heart's desire looked blushingly,
Made moist and warm with sweet, mysterious balm,
That might have soothed the brow full tenderly:
But they, forgetful in their dreamlike calm,
Enfold each other half regretfully.