You picked up little, had small need,
When hands alone were used once—
And little good was all good.
Then you put on the gloves of chance,
And much was momently enjoyed
At fearsome covered distance.
Latterly you have employed
Long handles of desire
And many a swift persuasion pulled
Out of the travelling fire
By bounteous error fuelled
And spiteful fancy lit.
But groping greed is at last lulled
When hands their skill of lies remit—

And fingers stem closely from brain,
Tight on the plentitudes of pain
That from the reach of heart remain.