Classic Poem

" My hands were loved of many, when I was young,
Not for the beauty of the flesh alone.
They were as quivering harp-strings that had sung
A music that at last became my own.
Their slenderness was eloquent of blood
Seeking a joy not ever manifest.
My lips and eyes never betrayed my mood
As they did. And my lovers from my breast
Sometimes have turned to kiss these hands again
That were to me a perfidy and no prize.
Is happiness so small a thing — ? and pain
So great a splendor to the lover's eyes? —
Could they not love my joyousness, but only
My hands — that are so terrible, so lonely? "