When first I loved, in the long ago, And held your hand as I told you so-- Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss, And said "I could die fora hand like this!" Little I dreamed love's fulness yet Had to ripen when eyes were wet, And prayers were vain in their wild demands For one warm touch of your beautiful hands. Beautiful Hands! O Beautiful Hands! Could you reach out of the alien lands Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night, Only a touch--were it ever so light-- My heart were soothed, and my weary brain Would lull itself into rest again; For there is no solace the world commands Like the caress of your beautiful hands. * * * * * Violently winking at the mist that blurs my sight, I regretfully awaken to the here and now. And is it possible, I sorrowfully muse, that all this glory can have fled away?--that more than twenty long, long years are spread between me and that happy night? And is it possible that all the dear old faces--O, quit it! quit it! Gather the old scraps up and wad 'em back into oblivion, where they belong! Yes, but be calm--be calm! Think of cheerful things. You are not all alone. _Billy_'s living yet. I know--and six feet high--and sag-shouldered--and owns a tin and stove-store, and can't hear thunder! _Billy!_ And the youngest Mills girl--she's alive, too. S'pose I don't know that? I married her! And Doc.-- _Bob_ married her. Been in California for more than fifteen years--on some blasted cattle-ranch, or something,--and he's worth a half a million! And am I less prosperous with this gilded roll? End of Project Gutenberg's Pipes O'Pan at Zekesbury, by James Whitcomb Riley