A little hand, with magic in its palm,
Draws me resistless on; I press
The sweet and rosy flesh and feel a balm
Distilling from the soft caress.
It is mid-day in June; I have no will
To check the baby's words, which reach
Me half articulate: I have no skill
To oppose the pleadings of his speech.
On, on, my guide is monarch of the hour,
And I the slave of that small hand,
Which flings afar my fleeting dreams of power,
And chokes the projects I had planned.
Two different hands; one satin and one hard,
One plump and young, one old and thin,
And filled with lines, where life has scarred
Its pain and let confession in.
One brown and wrinkled hand, one dimpled hand,
The weaker fingers point one way,
I tire of my young officer's command,
And yet—I dare not disobey!
