I turn it now face up, now down, and can't make bold
To say it is no marvel this flower that I hold.
I said it was a flower, that which is like a star.
When from its place you stole it, perhaps, sometime, from far
And high as you descended, with graces not a few,
Its pins and needles thrilled you and put its seal on you.
In awe bows down the spirit to ponder on the bliss.
Of the five fingers give me each one in turn to kiss,
You lissome girl and nimble, spinning away the yarn
And twisting the swift spindle beside the shaded barn,
And you relentless toiler, your heavy hand I love;
So strong it is one would say it wore an iron glove.
The mind does think, I grant it, but what could the mind do
Alone, were not the hand there to do some thinking too?
Vainly the fast sealed oyster would in its bosom keep
The bright pure pearl while skimming the bottom of the deep.
With quill or pencil held by two fingers and a thumb
It writes the word immortal for all the times to come.
The eye can weep, but deeper can weep the violin,
For with the hand is weeping the sighing string, its twin!
Manole, the great builder, once cherished a dream, too,
To build a monastery. What made the dream come true?
Five fingers on the right hand, and on the left five more,
Against ill fate, did build it up to the skies to soar;
The self same hands and sinews which set a watching block
Over the sands, the Sphinx, hewn out of the living rock.
It's there against the moon, see? There stand upon its crest
The stately pair of lions and their four cubs at rest.
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