Hands of a Girl
My hands in the sun are like a doll of Titian’s
That he painted for lack of things to do.
Poor mortal hands what is the soul of you.
What strange half-life unravelled in your palm?
What was your gayest, white, bewitching charm
That now you lie like yellowed china in the sun?
The thin, blue veins that sadly, sadly run
The secret of the blood, long since forgot,
That they will never speak, and whisper not.
They are the thin and yellow hands of grief
The tapestry of some gold-whispered leaf,
Lying amid the broken vessels of the mind
With tragic autograph forever signed.