Classic Poem

This is my hand I lift to you:
It is not whitened leaf, O Sun.
And these thin cords of quivering blue
Lacing the pulse, are veins that run
Beneath the flesh to make it white.
These are my fingers, not twigs pale
From too long hanging in the light.
Supple as reed yet firm as mail,
They droop but for a shape of ease,
Are quiet for the sake of fine
Shadows that rim them and increase
The accuracy of their design.
You are but background; you are spun
From tinsel in a glittered mesh.
My hand stands out like white bronze. Sun,
I shame you with my tepid flesh.