The Hands of the Betrothed / D.H. Lawrence



Her 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.

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