Prose from the Pros #8: G is for Gates

This poem reminds me of  my grandmother. Enjoy!

Beautiful Hands
By Emma M. H. Gates

SUCH beautiful, beautiful hands,
They're neither white nor small;
And you, I know, would scarcely think
That they were fair at all.
I've looked on hands whose form and hue
A sculptor's dream might be,
Yet are these agéd wrinkled hands
Most beautiful to me.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
Though heart were weary and sad
These patient hands kept toiling on
That the children might be glad.
I almost weep when looking back
To childhood's distant day!
I think how these hands rested not
When mine were at their play.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
They're growing feeble now,
And time and pain have left their mark
On hand, and heart and brow.
Alas! alas! the nearing time--
And the sad, sad day to me,
When 'neath the daisies, out of sight,
These hands must folded be.

But, oh! beyond the shadowy lands,
Where all is bright and fair,
I know full well these dear old hands
Will palms of victory bear;
When crystal streams, through endless years,
Flow over golden sands,
And where the old are young again,
I'll clasp my mother's hands.

What do you remember most about a loved one?


Monti said…
What a sad but beautiful poem! Thank you. Gates is for the name of the poet but also for gates opening to a different realm.

Thanks for commenting on my blog.

Jayne said…
What a lovely poem. Thank you for highlighting it for us to enjoy. :)
Sad but so beautifully written, the words flow just perfectly! Love it!
And your blog looks really beautiful!

All the best
Marinela x
Short Poems
I love your site and as I browsed your blog I decided to award you the Creative Blog Award.
Go to and pick up your award.
Anonymous said…
Beautiful poem, and coincidental same word for the A-to-Z Challenge. Read your bio. I'm so glad you've decided to chase your dreams.
Sarah Grigsby said…
That was a beautiful poem. Nice choice for "G".
C R Ward said…
Beautiful poem, what a wonderful choice for "G"!
Erin Kane Spock said…
My grandmother passed away last week and I flew out for her old school, Midwest funeral. I shook so many feeble, knobby, arthritic hands and it struck me that my grandmother represented the passing of an era. All those old ladies will not last out another winter, and they knew it.
At that moment I felt my own years as something heavy, and saw my mother as a member of the next disappearing generation. I honestly cannot put my feelings about it into words, it is something I am still trying to figure out.
That was a beautiful poem.

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