Edith Wharton

Here you will find the Poem Some Busy Hands of poet Edith Wharton

Some Busy Hands


SOME busy hands have brought to light, 
And laid beneath my eye, 
The dress I wore that afternoon 
You came to say good-by. 

About it still there seems to cling 
Some fragrance unexpressed, 
The ghostly odor of the rose 
I wore upon my breast; 

And, subtler than all flower-scent, 
The sacred garment holds 
The memory of that parting day 
Close hidden in its folds. 

The rose is dead, and you are gone, 
But to the dress I wore 
The rose's smell, the thought of you, 
Are wed forevermore. 


That day you came to say good-by 
(A month ago! It seems a year!) 
How calm I was! I met your eye, 
And in my own you saw no tear. 

You heard me laugh and talk and jest, 
And lightly grieve that you should go; 
You saw the rose upon my breast, 
But not the breaking heart below. 

And when you came and took my hand, 
It scarcely fluttered in your hold. 
Alas, you did not understand! 
For you were blind, and I was cold. 

And now you cannot see my tears, 
And now you cannot hear my cry. 
A month ago? Nay, years and years 
Have aged my heart since that good-by.