Into a dream oasis

Where the weary camels rest,

Dreams of my hopes that were slaughtered, Ever twist within my breast.

On through a night of shadows, Into gold of virgin dawn, Bearing a faith eternal,

Caravan of love moves on.

Carol Hales

MILADY'S HANDS

Your hands are woman's hands, and yet They are not soft, effeminate.

They have a strength, a suppleness That woman's hands do not possess. Your skillful fingers, equally At ease in crafts and carpentry Are yet no strangers to the part They must play in domestic art. Most women's hands are butterflies, In yours a strength of purpose lies. Your hands are calm and self-assured, Your nails are short, unmanicured. And rough and calloused though they be They yet retain much charm for me. I love your hands. Twin traitors, they! When I am with you they betray Your secret self. Your fingers turn To clasp each other, though they yearn To touch my hair, my eyes, my lips, Those eager, questing fingertips, To seek my beating he art and dare to hold it, as if captive, there. Oh, prudent lass, unclasp your hands, For I am one who understands!

-

from VICE VERSA

Vol. 1, No. 4, Sept., 1947

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