Classic Poem

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,
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,
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
To bring them wine—to pour them wine;

Oh 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.

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;
Though hand and arm are both unseen,
Your rosy wrist peeps out between
And sends it home—and speeds it home.