elzataerinn

I at arm's length my hands beheld, And what admiration I felt! "And what hands are these?" I ask "That perform so many a task." These hands are the medium of my thought. My imagination by them are brought Out from that mental dorm And are given earthly form. What hands that paint my joys and desires And makes instruments sing my inner fires. Hands to love and hands to hold, Hands to weave such tales untold. So I cry, impressed, "With what hands I am blessed!" But then I heard the voice of doubt, the voice of fear (Or 'praps it's the voice of reason that accosts my ear) And what it said was the stuff of nightmare: "Should fate or circumstanc