This hand you have observed, 
Impassive and detached, 
With joints adroitly curved, 
And fingers neatly matched: 

Blue-veined and yellowish, 
Ambiguous to clasp, 
And secret as a fish, 
And sudden as an asp: 

It doubles to a fist, 
Or droops composed and chill; 
The socket of my wrist 
Controls it to my will. 

It leaps to my command, 
Tautened, or trembling lax; 
It lies within your hand 
Anatomy of wax. 

If I had seen a thorn 
Broken to grape-vine bud; 
If I had ever borne 
Child of our mingled blood; 

Elixirs might escape; 
But now, compact as stone, 
My hand preserves a shape 
Too utterly its own.