Hands on a Card-Table

Polly Chase

A woman's hands, with polished finger-nail,
Creeping like puffy spiders on green baize,
Clicking the cards down softly as she plays.
Plump, pampered hands!-too lifeless to assail
The keys Cecilia pressed, or glean the frail
Ripe wheat that Ruth's hands gleaned! Forlorn I gaze
On hands of card-crazed women-how to praise,
How glorify the dulness of their tale?
Better for hands to swing the singing loom
The Lady of Shalot turned pensively;
Or hold the gilded book in a convent room
With sad Francesca, listening to the sea;
Or pluck the idle fruit which sealed the doom
Of lily-fingered lost Persephone.