Hands on a Card-Table

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.