Dinah Kneading Dough
I have seen full many a sight
Born of day or drawn by night:
Sunlight on a silver stream,
Golden lilies all a—dream,
Lofty mountains, bold and proud,
Veiled beneath the lacelike cloud;
But no lovely sight I know
Equals Dinah kneading dough.
Brown arms buried elbow—deep
Their domestic rhythm keep,
As with steady sweep they go
Through the gently yielding dough.
Maids may vaunt their finer charms—
Naught to me like Dinah’s arms;
Girls may draw, or paint, or sew—
I love Dinah kneading dough.
Eyes of jet and teeth of pearl,
Hair, some say, too tight a—curl;
But the dainty maid I deem
Very near perfection’s dream.
Swift she works, and only flings
Me a glance—the least of things.
And I wonder, does she know
That my heart is in the dough?
