A Clasp of Hands

I     Soft, small, and sweet as sunniest flowers     That bask in heavenly heat     When bud by bud breaks, breathes, and cowers,     Soft, small, and sweet.     A babe's hands open as to greet     The tender touch of ours     And mock with motion faint and fleet     The minutes of the new strange hours     That earth, not heaven, must mete;     Buds fragrant still from heaven's own bowers,     Soft, small, and sweet. II     A velvet vice with springs of steel     That fasten in a trice     And clench the fingers fast that feel     A velvet vice     What man would risk the danger twice,     Nor quake from head to heel?     Whom would not one such test suffice?     Well may we tremble as we kneel     In sight of Paradise,     If both a babe's closed fists conceal     A velvet vice. III     Two flower-soft fists of conquering clutch,     Two creased and dimpled wrists,     That match, if mottled overmuch,     Two flower-soft fists     What heart of man dare hold the lists     Against such odds and such     Sweet vantage as no strength resists?     Our strength is all a broken crutch,     Our eyes are dim with mists,     Our hearts are prisoners as we touch     Two flower-soft fists.