| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Your Hands | | By Florence Ripley Mastin |
| | | HANDS, your hands, quite calm now | |
| At the day’s end, | |
| You are not delicately molded, not exquisite, | |
| Not gentle always…. | |
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| You are scarred, | 5 |
| With broken lines— | |
| Sultry lines of passion. | |
| There are grotesques in you, | |
| Like forests after fire. | |
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| You hold valleys of renunciation, | 10 |
| And crags shaken by the storm, | |
| That only faiths like wild goats know. | |
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| Yet now rises, within that dark repose, | |
| Beauty, as she comes hooded at twilight…. | |
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| Ah, do not touch me, yet … | 15 | | | |
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