The Hands of the Betrothed
HER tawny eyes are onyx of thoughtlessness,Hardened they are like gems in ancient modesty;Yea, and her mouth's prudent and crude caressMeans even less than her many words to me.
Though her kiss betrays me also this, this onlyConsolation, that in her lips her blood at climaxclipsTwo wild, dumb paws in anguish on the lonelyFruit of my heart, ere down, rebuked, it slips.
I know from her hardened lips that still her heart isHungry for me, yet if I put my hand in her breastShe puts me away, like a saleswoman whose mart isEndangered by the pilferer on his quest.
But her hands are still the woman, the large, stronghandsHeavier than mine, yet like leverets caught insteelWhen I hold them; my still soul understandsTheir dumb confession of what her sort must feel.
For never her hands come nigh me but they liftLike heavy birds from the morning stubble, tosettleUpon me like sleeping birds, like birds that shiftUneasily in their sleep, disturbing my mettle.
How caressingly she lays her hand on my knee,How strangely she tries to disown it, as it sinksIn my flesh and bone and forages into me,How it stirs like a subtle stoat, whatever shethinks!
And often I see her clench her fingers tightAnd thrust her fists suppressed in the folds of herskirt;And sometimes, how she grasps her arms with herbrightBig hands, as if surely her arms did hurt.
And I have seen her stand all unawarePressing her spread hands over her breasts, as sheWould crush their mounds on her heart, to kill inthereThe pain that is her simple ache for me.
Her strong hands take my part, the part of a manTo her; she crushes them into her bosom deepWhere I should lie, and with her own strongspanCloses her arms, that should fold me in sleep.
Ah, and she puts her hands upon the wall,Presses them there, and kisses her bright hands,Then lets her black hair loose, the darkness fallAbout her from her maiden-folded bands.
And sits in her own dark night of her bitter hairDreaming--God knows of what, for to me she'sthe sameBetrothed young lady who loves me, and takes careOf her womanly virtue and of my good name.
Words in this poem
- caress n.
- An act of endearment; any act or expression of affection; an embracing, or touching, with tenderness. [F. caresse, It. carezza, LL. caritia dearness, fr. L. carus dear. See Charity.]
- saleswoman n.
- A woman whose occupation is to sell goods or merchandise.
- mart v. t.
- To buy or sell in, or as in, a mart.
- pilferer n.
- One who pilfers; a petty thief.
- uneasily adv.
- In an uneasy manner.
- caressingly
- In caressing manner.
- strangely adv.
- As something foreign, or not one's own; in a manner adapted to something foreign and strange.
- stoat n.
- The ermine in its summer pelage, when it is reddish brown, but with a black tip to the tail. The name is sometimes applied also to other brown weasels. [OE. stot a stoat, horse, bullock; perhaps originally only of male animals, and akin to D. stooten to push, E. stutter; cf. Icel. st a bull, Sw. stut a bullock. ]
- unaware a.
- Not aware; not noticing; giving no heed; thoughtless; inattentive.
- ache n.
- A name given to several species of plants; as, smallage, wild celery, parsley. Holland. [F. ache, L. apium parsley.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
The Hands of the Betrothed is in the public domain. This text is taken from Amores: Poems, Project Gutenberg ebook #22531; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: D. H. Lawrence, The Hands of the Betrothed, in Amores (1916), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #22531, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/lawrence-amores/the-hands-of-the-betrothed.html, id L13586.
Form and metre
The Hands of the Betrothed is 54 lines in 11 stanzas. 93% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 9.1 syllables. 5 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 67% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 A-A- thoughtlessnessA · modesty · caressA · me
- 2 A-BAB onlyA · climax · clipsB · lonelyA · slipsB
- 3 ABAB isA · breastB · isA · questB
- 4 -A-BAB strong · handsA · in · steelB · understandsA · feelB
- 5 A-BAB liftA · to · settleB · shiftA · mettleB
- 6 ABAAB kneeA · sinksB · meA · sheA · thinksB
- 7 ABCBAC tightA · herB · skirtC · herB · brightA · hurtC
- 8 AB-AB unawareA · sheB · in · thereA · meB
- 9 AB-AB manA · deepB · strong · spanA · sleepB
- 10 ABAB wallA · handsB · fallA · bandsB
- 11 A-BAB hairA · she's · sameB · careA · nameB
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| HER tawny eyes are onyx of thoughtlessness, | 11 | ·/˘··/˘···· |
| Hardened they are like gems in ancient modesty; | 11 | /˘·····/˘/˘ |
| Yea, and her mouth's prudent and crude caress | 10 | ····/˘··˘/ |
| Means even less than her many words to me. | 10 | ·/···/˘··· |
| Though her kiss betrays me also this, this only | 12 | ···˘/·/˘··/˘ |
| Consolation, that in her lips her blood at climax | 13 | ·˘/˘·······/· |
| clips | 1 | · |
| Two wild, dumb paws in anguish on the lonely | 11 | ·····/˘··/˘ |
| Fruit of my heart, ere down, rebuked, it slips. | 10 | ······˘/·· |
| I know from her hardened lips that still her heart is | 12 | ····/˘······ |
| Hungry for me, yet if I put my hand in her breast | 13 | /˘··········· |
| She puts me away, like a saleswoman whose mart is | 13 | ···˘/··/·˘··· |
| Endangered by the pilferer on his quest. | 11 | ˘/˘··/˘˘··· |
| But her hands are still the woman, the large, strong | 11 | ······/˘··· |
| hands | 1 | · |
| Heavier than mine, yet like leverets caught in | 11 | /˘········· |
| steel | 1 | · |
| When I hold them; my still soul understands | 10 | ········˘/ |
| Their dumb confession of what her sort must feel. | 11 | ··˘/˘······ |
| For never her hands come nigh me but they lift | 10 | ·/········ |
| Like heavy birds from the morning stubble, to | 11 | ·/˘···/˘/˘· |
| settle | 2 | /˘ |
| Upon me like sleeping birds, like birds that shift | 11 | ····/˘····· |
| Uneasily in their sleep, disturbing my mettle. | 12 | ˘/˘···˘/˘·/˘ |
| How caressingly she lays her hand on my knee, | 12 | ·˘/˘˘······· |
| How strangely she tries to disown it, as it sinks | 12 | ·/˘···˘/···· |
| In my flesh and bone and forages into me, | 11 | ······/˘··· |
| How it stirs like a subtle stoat, whatever she | 12 | ·····/˘··/˘· |
| thinks! | 1 | · |
| And often I see her clench her fingers tight | 11 | ·/˘·····/˘· |
| And thrust her fists suppressed in the folds of her | 11 | ····˘/····· |
| skirt; | 1 | · |
| And sometimes, how she grasps her arms with her | 10 | ·˘/······· |
| bright | 1 | · |
| Big hands, as if surely her arms did hurt. | 10 | ····/˘···· |
| And I have seen her stand all unaware | 10 | ········˘/ |
| Pressing her spread hands over her breasts, as she | 10 | /˘········ |
| Would crush their mounds on her heart, to kill in | 10 | ·········· |
| there | 1 | · |
| The pain that is her simple ache for me. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Her strong hands take my part, the part of a man | 11 | ··········· |
| To her; she crushes them into her bosom deep | 12 | ···/˘····/˘· |
| Where I should lie, and with her own strong | 9 | ········· |
| span | 1 | · |
| Closes her arms, that should fold me in sleep. | 10 | /˘········ |
| Ah, and she puts her hands upon the wall, | 10 | ·········· |
| Presses them there, and kisses her bright hands, | 10 | /˘···/˘··· |
| Then lets her black hair loose, the darkness fall | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| About her from her maiden-folded bands. | 10 | ·····/˘/˘· |
| And sits in her own dark night of her bitter hair | 12 | ·········/˘· |
| Dreaming--God knows of what, for to me she's | 10 | /˘········ |
| the same | 2 | ·· |
| Betrothed young lady who loves me, and takes care | 11 | ···/˘······ |
| Of her womanly virtue and of my good name. | 12 | ··/˘˘/˘····· |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.