Vanity

Amid the clack of teacups, clink of spoons,
clean, patterned table cloth and lemon rinds:
your hands, midsummer-bronze, long-fingered hands.

Was it a dream, or did your hands pronounce
those rites of morning, near the open blinds,
amid the clack of teacups, clink of spoons,

with all my body stirring? What sweet dawns,
to be awakened by the brooming fronds
of hands, midsummer-bronze, long-fingered hands.

Yes, I believe. Imagination reigns.
There is no other ear your touch commands
amid the clack of teacups, clink of spoons.

Let the mind falter while the heart contends
it is not reason now that recommends
your hands, midsummer-bronze, long-fingered hands,

but vanity, that never comprehends
the silence. No, I never heard them once,
amid the clack of teacups, clink of spoons—
your hands, midsummer-bronze, long-fingered hands.