 | The Mockers and other Verses |  |
79
THE SIBYL'S HANDFUL
'Tis strange to watch the young Ionian's handWhat time Apollôn schemes right godlike jest
Of witless boon vouchsafed. Such hopes attest
Rosed tips down-curved to where past jewelled band
Veins dwindle; fingers tense as though they spanned
The world's worth in each grain their whiteness pressed—
Each powdery spurt a heart-pang. Fortune blest
Saw she but half a life hence. So the sand
Would sprinkle to her feet, and all her cares
Change course; for now the maid not soon will cease
To ply that covetous palm with touches light
Of its fair twin, and join and often smite
Asunder, lest in some fine-graven crease
Lurk yet a decade's weariness unawares.
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