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.