Explore "The Touches of her Hands" by James Whitcomb Riley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The touches of her hands are like the fall / Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down / The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall; / The flossy fondling of the thistle-wisp / Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown / The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.
Soft as the falling of the dusk at night, / The touches of her hands, and the delight -- / The touches of her hands!
The touches of her hands are like the dew / That falls so softly down no one e'er knew / The touch thereof save lovers like to one / Astray in lights where ranged Endymion.
O rarely soft, the touches of her hands, / As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands; / Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs; / Or -- in between the midnight and the dawn, / When long unrest and tears and fears are gone -- / Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.