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My mother's hands are cool and fair, They can do anything. Delicate mercies hide them there Like flowers in the spring. When I was small and could not sleep, She used to come to me, And with my cheek upon her hand How sure my rest would be. For everything she ever touched Of beautiful or fine, Their memories living in her hands Would warm that sleep of mine. Her hands remember how they played One time in meadow streams,— And all the flickering song and shade Of water took my dreams. Swift through her haunted fingers pass Memories of garden things;— I dipped my face in flowers and grass And sounds of hidden wings. One time she touched the cloud that kissed Brown pastures bleak and far;— I leaned my cheek into a mist And thought I was a star. All this was very long ago And I am grown; but yet The hand that lured my slumber so I never can forget. For still when drowsiness comes on It seems so soft and cool, Shaped happily beneath my cheek, Hollow and beautiful. |