How beautiful it is
To see my lady’s hands;
Whether adorned with rings,
Or with their snowy lengths
And rosy tips,
Undecked with gems of gold.
When her light work she plies,
Creating mimic flowers,
Or drawing the fair thread
Through folds of snowy lawn.
How beautiful it is
To see my lady’s hands;
Often I, sitting, watch
Their gliding to and fro,
These lovely birds of snow.
Sometimes the evening shades
Draw around us as we talk,
Sometimes the tired sun,
Drooping towards the West,
Makes all the fields of heaven
With autumn’s colors glow;
Sometimes the sailing moon,
Unclouded and serene,
Rises between the misty woods
That crown the distant hills;
Then most I love to sit
And watch my lady’s hands
Blush with the sunset’s rose,
Or whiten in the moon,
Or, lucid in the amber evening air,
Folded, repose.
Sometimes she paces slowly
Among the garden flowers;
Above her the trees tremble,
And lean their leafage down,
So much they love to see her;
The flowers, white and red,
Open their fragrant eyes,
Gladder to hear her coming
Than birds singing,
Or bees humming.
She, stooping, clad in grace,
Gathers them one by one,
Lily and crimson rose,
With sprigs of tender green,
And holds them in her hands.
Nothing can sweeter be
Than, lying on the lawn,
To see those graceful hands
Drop all their odorous load
Upon her snowy lap,
And then, with magic skill
And rosy fingers fine,
To watch her intertwine
Some wreath, not all unfitting
Young brows divine.
How beautiful it is
To see my lady’s hands;
In moonlight sorrowful,
Or sunlight fire,
Busied with graceful toil,
Or folded in repose,
How beautiful it is
To see my lady’s hands.