A large brown hand by labour stained
Four snowy fingers prest,
As though a swarthy Cyclops strained
A white maid to his breast.
And fondly did that brown hand hold
Those fingers white as snow,
As though it were a link of gold
That would not let them go.
Time passes on. The two hands clasp
Another newly given:
As though they’d found an angel’s grasp
To draw them up to heaven.
Once more the brown hand and the white
Are linked. So cold! so fast!—
As though true loving hearts unite
More closely at the last.