WHEN you go out at early morn,
Your busy hands, sweet drudge, are bare;
For you must work, and none are there
To see with scorn--to feel with scorn.
And when the weekly wars begin,
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Your arms are naked to the hilt,
And many a sturdy pail's a-tilt
To sheathe them in--to plunge them in.
For you at least can understand
That daily work is hard and stern,
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That those who toil for bread must learn
To bare the hand--to spoil the hand.
But in the evening, when they dine,
And you behind each frequent chair
Are flitting lightly here and there
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To bring them wine--to pour them wine;
0h then, from every dainty eye
That may not so be shock'd or grieved,
Your hands are hid, your arms are sleeved:
We ask not why--we tell not why.
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Ah fools! Though you for workday scours,
And they for show, unveil their charms,
Love is not bound to snowy arms,
He thinks of yours--he speaks of yours:
To me his weighted shaft has come;
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Though hand and arm are both unseen,
Your rosy wrist peeps out between
And sends it home--and speeds it home.