By PoeticMeditations

Once, she said she loved my hands
And oft caressed them with her own
While hand in hand upon the grass
We sat together all alone.

She never said she loved my eyes
Though through them poured my love so free
My hands alone is what she said she loved
Alas, what she did not love was me.

About poeticmeditations

A 19th-century romantic poet living in the 21st-century. The Romantic poets, nib pens, candlelight, waistcoats, and pocket watches are a few of my favorite things.
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