The Hands Of The Betrothed Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis


Her tawny eyes are onyx of thoughtlessnessA
Hardened they are like gems in ancient modestyB
Yea and her mouth's prudent and crude caressA
Means even less than her many words to meB
Though her kiss betrays me also this this onlyB
Consolation that in her lips her blood at climax clipsA
Two wild dumb paws in anguish on the lonelyB
Fruit of my heart ere down rebuked it slipsA
I know from her hardened lips that still her heart isA
Hungry for me yet if I put my hand in her breastC
She puts me away like a saleswoman whose mart isA
Endangered by the pilferer on his questC
But her hands are still the woman the large strong handsA
Heavier than mine yet like leverets caught in steelD
When I hold them my still soul understandsA
Their dumb confession of what her sort must feelD
For never her hands come nigh me but they liftE
Like heavy birds from the morning stubble to settleF
Upon me like sleeping birds like birds that shiftE
Uneasily in their sleep disturbing my mettleF
How caressingly she lays her hand on my kneeB
How strangely she tries to disown it as it sinksA
In my flesh and bone and forages into meB
How it stirs like a subtle stoat whatever she thinksA
And often I see her clench her fingers tightG
And thrust her fists suppressed in the folds of her skirtH
And sometimes how she grasps her arms with her brightG
Big hands as if surely her arms did hurtH
And I have seen her stand all unawareI
Pressing her spread hands over her breasts as sheB
Would crush their mounds on her heart to kill in thereI
The pain that is her simple ache for meB
Her strong hands take my part the part of a manJ
To her she crushes them into her bosom deepK
Where I should lie and with her own strong spanJ
Closes her arms that should fold me in sleepK
Ah and she puts her hands upon the wallL
Presses them there and kisses her bright handsA
Then lets her black hair loose the darkness fallL
About her from her maiden folded bandsA
And sits in her own dark night of her bitter hairI
Dreaming God knows of what for to me she's the sameM
Betrothed young lady who loves me and takes careI
Of her womanly virtue and of my good nameM

D. H. Lawrence


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