With Her Face Between His Hands


      With her face between his hands!
      Was it any wonder she stook atiptoe tremblingly?
      As his lips along the strands
      Of her hair went lavishing
      Tides of kisses, such as swing
      Love's arms to like iron bands,-
      With her face between his hands!

      And the hands-the hands that pressed
      The glad face-Ah! Where are they?
      Folded limp, and laid away
      Idly over idle breast?
      He whose kisses drenched her hair,
      As he caught and held her there,
      In Love's alien, lost lands,
      With her face between his hands?

      Was it long and long ago,
      When her face was not as now,
      Dim with tears? Nor wan her brow
      As a winter-night of snow?
      Nay, annointing still the strands
      Of her hair, his kisses flow
      Flood-wise, as she dreaming strands,
      With his face between her hands.

            ---James Whitcomb Riley



























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