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Poems About Hands

Table of Contents

  1. Ten True Friends by Anonymous
  2. A Woman's Hand by Amos Russel Wells
  3. My Lady's Hands by R. H. House
  4. My Mother's Hands by Anonymous
  5. Those Willing Hands by Kate Slaughter McKinney
  6. The Thumb by Amos Russel Wells
  7. Little Fingers by Anonymous
  8. Two Hands by Mary Bartol
  9. Each New Little Day Slips Out of My Hand by Annette Wynne

  1. Ten True Friends

    by Anonymous

    Ten true friends you have,
    Who, five in a row,
    Upon each side of you
    Go where you go.

    Suppose you are sleepy,
    They help you to bed;
    Suppose you are hungry,
    They see that you are fed.

    They wake up your dolly
    And put on your clothes,
    And trundle her carriage
    Wherever she goes.

    And these ten tiny fellows,
    They serve you with ease;
    And they ask nothing from you,
    But work hard to please.

    Now, with ten willing servants
    So trusty and true,
    Pray who would be lazy
    Or idle—would you?

  2. A Woman's Hand

    by Amos Russel Wells

    Soft and tender, smooth and white,
    Formed for winning and delight,
    Nature has no lovelier sight,—
    A woman's hand.

    Wrinkled, worn with much to do,
    Many a task for me and you,
    In all trials good and true,—
    A woman's hand.

    Clasping ours through life and death,
    Lovingly to latest breath,
    Sweetest thing that comforteth,—
    A woman's hand.

  3. My Lady's Hands

    by R. H. House

    My lady hath of charms her lion’s share;
    Grace, beauty, wit and a sweet thoughtfulness,
    Which rests serenely on her gentle face,
    Sweet as the flowers are, and pure as air.

    Yet, of all forms of beauty which she wears,
    One is reserved for me alone—the best;
    Her loving hand-clasps are for me; the rest
    Not mine alone may be, the whole world shares.

    Eye speaking unto eye must fail oftimes
    To utter all the feelings love demands,
    And loving letters leave to clasping hands
    To speak the heart-throbs hid "between the lines.”

    Old age must one day touch my darling’s brow,
    Her dear face wrinkle, and her large eyes dim;
    But then her hands will touch the hands of him
    Who lives for her, with thrill as sweet as now.

    Ah, when my spirit freed from earth stains lands
    On those blest shores beyond Death’s narrow sea.
    May the dear boon be granted unto me
    To feel, close clasped in mine, my lady’s hands.

  4. My Mother's Hands

    by Anonymous

    Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
    They're neither white nor small;
    And you, I know, would scarcely think
    That they are fair at all.
    I've looked on hands whose form and hue
    A sculptor's dream might be;
    Yet are those aged, wrinkled hands
    More beautiful to me.

    Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
    Though heart were weary and sad,
    Those patient hands kept toiling on,
    That the children might be glad.
    I always weep, as, looking back
    To childhood's distant day,
    I think how those hands rested not
    When mine were at their play.

    Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
    They're growing feeble now,
    For time and pain have left their mark
    On hands and heart and brow.
    Alas! alas! the nearing time,
    And the sad, sad day to me,
    When 'neath the daisies, out of sight,
    These hands will folded be.

    But oh! beyond this shadow land,
    Where all is bright and fair,
    I know full well these dear old hands
    Will palms of victory bear;
    Where crystal streams through endless years
    Flow over golden sands,
    And where the old grow young again,
    I'll clasp my mother's hands.

  5. Those Willing Hands

    by Kate Slaughter McKinney

    Those willing hands—they’re still to-night—
    The life has from them fled;
    They’re folded from the longing sight,
    So cold and pale and dead.
    The busy veins have idle grown,
    Like a long famished rill,
    That once in such an eager tone
    Called soft from hill to hill.

    Dear hands, I’ve felt their pressure oft,
    In a sad time gone by;
    They moved about the years as soft
    As clouds move through the sky.
    They screened the rainstorm from my heart,
    And let the moonlight in,
    And showed, while shadows fell athwart,
    Tracks where the sun had been.

    They were such willing, willing hands,
    They stilled the mournful tear,
    Unwound the pattern of God’s plans,
    And made his problems clear.
    They did not reach to high-grown bowers,
    Where rarest blossoms bloom;
    But culled the blessed, purer flowers,
    And bore them to the tomb.

    Poor hands—they are so still and white,
    The rose that shared their rest
    Is shrinking from the long, dark night,
    And falling on her breast.
    The wreath is wilted on the mound
    Where long the sunshine stands,
    But angels have the sleeper found,
    And clasped those willing hands.

  6. The Thumb

    And hail to the men who are like the thumb;
    Men who are laboring, modestly dumb,
    Faithfully doing the work that is hard

    – Amos Russel Wells
    The Thumb
    by Amos Russel Wells

    Hail to the thumb, the useful thumb,
    The grasper, the holder, the doer of deeds,
    Where fingers are futile and tools succumb,
    Stolid, ungainly, the thumb succeeds.

    Hail to the thumb the homely thumb;
    Rings and jewels are not for it,
    Compliments, dainty and frolicsome,
    For fingers are suited, for thumbs unfit

    Hail to the thumb, the modest thumb;
    Gently und calmly it hides away,
    Never for it a banner and drum,
    Or praise at the end of a strenuous day.

    And hail to the men who are like the thumb;
    Men who are never sung by a bard,
    Men who are laboring, modestly dumb,
    Faithfully doing the work that is hard

    Some day, men of the toiling thumb,
    Men of the modest, invincible worth,
    Some day your high reward will come
    From the Hand of the Lord of heaven and earth!

  7. Little Fingers

    by Anonymous

    Busy little fingers,
    Everywhere they go,
    Rosy little fingers,
    The sweetest that I know!

    Now into my work-box,
    All the buttons finding,
    Tangling up the knitting,
    Every spool unwinding!

    Now into the basket
    Where the keys are hidden,
    Full of mischief looking,
    Knowing it forbidden.

    Then in mother’s tresses,
    Now her neck enfolding,
    With such sweet caresses
    Keeping off a scolding.

    Daring little fingers,
    Never, never still!
    Make them, Heavenly Father,
    Always do Thy will.

  8. Each New Little Day Slips Out of My Hand

    by Annette Wynne

    Each new little day slips out of my hand,
    And then with another new day I stand;
    But soon that is gone and folded away—
    I wish I might keep forever one day!
    I wish that one good day might always stay,
    For the good days hurry on so fast,
    Only the bad days seem to last;
    But soon the worst of days is past;
    And now within my room I stand
    With a new little day within my hand.

O little hands be quick to share
The praise, and fold yourselves in prayer.
An infant’s prayer must ever rise,
A grateful incense to the skies.

– Anonymous
O eyes that open