Classic Poem

Hands — like soft blossoming buds —
Of children that search for the breast,
In the calm sea of love's gaze
Cradled and sweetly caressed!
Small hands of Jesus the Christ,
In glory ineffably bright;
Hands like soft blossoming buds,
Hands bathed in milk and in light.

Fairy hands, nimble and fair,
O'er the piano that stray
Like a vague dream of life, or the void —
A dream from some realm far away!
The winged expression are ye
Of a sigh, or some cry on the air,
Floating in infinite space,
Fairy hands, nimble and fair.

Hands of an ivory white,
In the shade of the mantle obscure
Brightening prayer with their gleams
Gentle and starlike and pure!
Through their whiteness have passed all the woes
That ever humanity knew,
With the rosary's beads, one by one —
O hands of the ivory's hue!

Hands full of charity's grace,
Which to the hungry by night
Carry forth comfort and food,
Bread of hope's joy, of truth's light!
Noble, mysterious hands,
Of kindness unending, sincere!
Brothers are we, one and all,
Hands full of charity dear!

O pale, perished hands of the dead
For love or as martyrs who died!
Leaves of one lily are ye,
Hands that were clasped or spread wide;
Hands full of questions, desires,
Aspirations and yearnings unsaid —
Hands to the heavens outstretched,
O pale, perished hands of the dead!

Hands with the sword in their grasp,
That by warfare a sceptre have won,
And fill the whole world with the flood
Of rivers of blood that o'errun!
Hands of the common folk, armed
When quarrels or battles have birth —
Hands with the sword in their grasp,
Red hands of the great of the earth! ...

Hands that are bleeding and hard,
That plough up the stern, arid soil,
And scarce feel the flight of the hours,
So heavy and cruel the toil;
Hands in the workshop that sweat,
That set up the type in all lands,
Hands that meet death in the mines —
Hard, rough, and blood-spotted hands!

Hands that are wonted to toil,
Strong hands of the brave and the free!
When on the heights, in the depths,
Vibrates o'er land and o'er sea,
Stirring the world from its roots,
The anger of justice on fire —
Hands that are wonted to toil,
You shall that day hold the lyre!