Touch not my hands, they are so cold, so feverless; They have no pressure soft or bold, they are expressionless; They will not yield to love's demands, nor seek your own; So touch them not — those little hands Grown cold—like stone.
The speaker is asking not to be touched, and the reason is a strange one: her hands have gone cold and numb, and she doesn't want anyone to feel that. She describes them as "feverless" and "expressionless," as if they've lost the ability to say anything through touch. They can't press back softly or boldly, can't answer love's demands, can't even reach out on their own. The final image, hands "grown cold — like stone," makes them sound less like living flesh than something carved and lifeless.
What the speaker feels seems to be a mix of weariness and quiet shame. Nothing in the poem says why her hands have turned this way, so it's up to the reader to guess whether she means illness, grief, or an emotional shutting-down. The mood is hushed and sad, made heavier by the short, repeating line-endings that sound almost like a refusal repeated until it fades.