My Hands

My poor hands, so wan and faded,
Agile once as a bird,
My rhythms of speech you aided,
And by my brain you were stirred;

Poor wrinkled hands, like two
Old women worn and wizened,
My thoughts run on, but you
In listlessness are prisoned.

Yet I bless you, my hands, now that strife
Is done, and the heart reposes;
You taught me the touch of roses;
And the caresses of life.

All the hands you touched, hands of brothers,
And of women I loved in dole,
And the faithful hands of mothers:
I bear you yet in my soul.