Love’s sweet mysteries course their fingers, For their lightest touch of tips Has the secret gift of thrilling, Like affection’s clinging lips. They can knit with mystic flosses Such a net about the heart— Earth has naught so near a heaven As this thraldom doth impart. Hands have heart-beats throbbing through them And the lightning flash of thought; ’Tis by such that grand impulsions Into living deeds are wrought. Hands may be a sculptor’s pattern, Tipped with smooth, shell-tinted nails, Yet convey a touch, repulsive As of scaly serpent trails. If the soul is gross and selfish, There’s no art the trait conceals, But the hand in mold or clasping, To the sentient heart reveals. Idle hands are limp and nerveless, Lack expression, fervor, grasp— They receive nor give sensation, Simply lie within your clasp. Hands may flash a wealth of jewels, Yet display a pauper soul— God inscribes these outspread tablets From the spirit’s hidden scroll. Endymion. When the noble son of Zeus Asked the gift of youth immortal, Little wot he of the ages Stretching onward from life’s portal; Tho’ he walked with gods, he wearied, Wished for rest, intense and deep,— Asked another gift of Zeus; That of everlasting sleep. And his thoughtless wish was granted; Glad he hushed his soul’s repining In the winged god’s misty vapors And, on Latmos’ height reclining, Laid down all earth’s cares and trials— All its wearying heat and strife, Yet within his dormant being, Held the essences of life. Fair Selene, robed in beauty, Wandering forth in loneliness, Bent above the youth admiring— Touched him with a light caress; And her gazing woke his spirit To a dream’s ecstatic bliss, As her lips, with tender fondness, Snatched from his that holy kiss. And her heart’s new, quickened pulsing Thrilled along love’s unseen wires,— Stirred in him responsive passion,— Lit his soul’s electric fires. Then the roused, enrapt Endymion, Shaking off the slumbrous air, Cried,—“Ye gods, take back your giving, All life’s perils I will dare; Wake my soul to keenest feeling, Let its sense of pleasure reign, Tho’ my path were paved with spear-points I would count the waking gain.” Glad he left the heights so longed for, Sought the lowland’s balmy air, Leading her, the loved Selene, Thro’ the flowery valleys fair, Where the paths all flash with diamonds From the jewelled crown of Night,— Where the lake upon his bosom Rocks the sleeping lillies white, And his lullaby in whispers Floating thro’ the leafy dell, Mingling with perfume and zephyr Wove a sweet entrancing spell.