by: D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930)

      ER tawny eyes are onyx of thoughtlessness,
      Hardened they are like gems in ancient modesty;
      Yea, and her mouth’s prudent and crude caress
      Means even less than her many words to me.
      Though her kiss betrays me also this, this only
      Consolation, that in her lips her blood at climax clips
      Two wild, dumb paws in anguish on the lonely
      Fruit of my heart, ere down, rebuked, it slips.
      I know from her hardened lips that still her heart is
      Hungry for me, yet if I put my hand in her breast
      She puts me away, like a saleswoman whose mart is
      Endangered by the pilferer on his quest.
      But her hands are still the woman, the large, strong hands
      Heavier than mine, yet like leverets caught in steel
      When I hold them; my still soul understands
      Their dumb confession of what her sort must feel.
      For never her hands come nigh me but they lift
      Like heavy birds from the morning stubble, to settle
      Upon me like sleeping birds, like birds that shift
      Uneasily in their sleep, disturbing my mettle.
      How caressingly she lays her hand on my knee,
      How strangely she tries to disown it, as it sinks
      In my flesh and bone and forages into me,
      How it stirs like a subtle stoat, whatever she thinks!
      And often I see her clench her fingers tight
      And thrust her fists suppressed in the folds of her skirt;
      And sometimes, how she grasps her arms with her bright
      Big hands, as if surely her arms did hurt.
      And I have seen her stand all unaware
      Pressing her spread hands over her breasts, as she
      Would crush their mounds on her heart, to kill in there
      The pain that is her simple ache for me.
      Her strong hands take my part, the part of a man
      To her; she crushes them into her bosom deep
      Where I should lie, and with her own strong span
      Closes her arms, that should fold me in sleep.
      Ah, and she puts her hands upon the wall,
      Presses them there, and kisses her bright hands,
      Then lets her black hair loose, the darkness fall
      About her from her maiden-folded bands.
      And sits in her own dark night of her bitter hair
      Dreaming--God knows of what, for to me she’s the same
      Betrothed young lady who loves me, and takes care
      Of her womanly virtue and of my good name.

"The Hands of the Betrothed" is reprinted from Amores: Poems. D.H. Lawrence. New York: B.W. Huebsch, 1916.




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