A marvel to me is my lady's hand;
'Tis not that plump, thick-palmed and dimpled thing
With pointed ends and almond nails ye sing,
Ye other poets, in your phrases grand.
White, long and taper, pliant as a wand,
The pulsing currents coursing through it sting
Its nerves to action, rapid as the wing
With which the nest-bound ringdove spurns the land.
It feels in every fibre; almost talks,
To help her tongue by any thought oppressed,
Falling in balm upon the heart oppressed.
This hand hath influence; it entreats, it balks,
Directs, compels, or worships, as she walks,
With palms thus folded on her gentle breast.