Sylvia Plath, You With Hands More Innocent Than MineYou, whose hands are more innocent than mine,
and who possess a wisdom akin to carefree peace.
You, who can read his brow
better than I could interpret his solitude,
and who sweep away the faint shadows
of hesitation from his face,
just as a spring breeze clears
the cloud shadows drifting over the ridge.
If your embrace emboldens his heart,
and if your touch stills his pain,
if your name provides sanctuary
to his wandering thoughts, and your throat
offers him shade where he lies,
and the night of your voice remains an orchard,
untouched by any storm.
Then stay by his side,
and be more devoted than all those
who loved him before you.
Fear not the echoes approaching
innocent beds of love.
And be gentle to his sleep,
beneath an invisible mountain
on the edge of a roaring sea.
Soothe his grief. Let him be met
by compassionate puddles.
Comfort his rustling. Friendly lizards
will do you no harm.
And the thirsty snakes I have tamed
will bow before you.
Let the birds I warmed
during nights of bitter frost sing to you.
Let the boy I protected
from harassers on lonely roads caress you.
Let the flowers I watered
with my own tears scent your way.
I did not witness the finest season
of his manhood. I did not receive his fertility
into my own lap,
which was ravaged by the stares
of cattle drivers at fairs
and greedy outlaws.
I will never lead his children
by the hand. And the stories
I prepared for them long ago,
perhaps I will tell them weeping
to little, wretched bears
abandoned in the black forest.
You, whose hands are more innocent than mine,
be gentle to his sleep,
which has remained defenseless.
But let me see
his face, as unknown years
descend upon him.
And tell me something of him occasionally,
so I need not ask strangers
who marvel at me, or neighbors
who pity my patience.
You, whose hands are more innocent than mine,
stay by his bedside
and be gentle to his sleep.
