The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/The Hand's Wild Grasp

by William Motherwell

Sonnet—The Hand's Wild Grasp.

 

The hand's wild grasp, the dark flash of the eye,
Like the troubled gleam of a winter's sky,
The bosom's bitter throb, the half-choked sigh,
When the parting hour is hurrying nigh,
⁠Are known but to those who love.
Sad is that fateful hour, and pale the cheek,
And fain the tongue would, but it cannot speak,
⁠And the cold lips will not move.

Oh, could the eyes find tears kind hope hath sprung,
And could the lips but syllable a sound,
Albeit to wail, the heart with passion wrung
Would to its prisoned feeling thus give vent;
But in any icy circle -they are bound,
And when that breaks, the heart's last chord is rent!