Study in Hands

I Imperia I saw a plaster hand, on view In sculptor’s studio, set apart... Aspasia’s? Cleopatra’s?... Who? This fragment’s human work of art? Like lily silvered by the dawn, Frozen in kiss of snow, its light Loveliness dazzled me, and shone In poetry of purest white. Though pallid, wan, yet striking, it Spread over velvet, graceful, slender Fingers—delicate, exquisite— Decked thick with rings of weighty splendor. Thumb high, in serpentine-like pose, Arched in a svelte and shapely line, It lay, fine set, like one of those Hands held with proud air Florentine. Did it comb out the sultan’s beard On jeweled caftan? Or, with twirls And twistings, when Don Juan appeared, Play in his lustrous, glistening curls? A courtesan’s? A queen’s? Did this Wrought hand a scepter wield? Which one? The paragon of fleshly bliss? Sovereignty’s beauteous paragon? Doubtless, by little starts and fits, It lit, poised, in its fluttering, On the she-lion croup of its Chimera-dream, caught on the wing; The Empire’s fantasies; bombastic Love of fantastic, sumptuous schemes; Voluptuous frenzies orgiastic; Impossible and futile dreams; Wild tales; poetic escapades Of hashish, Rhine-wine sorcery; Dashing Bohemian cavalcades On steeds unbridled, coursing free... Such are the things the eyes divines In that white book, by Venus written: Blank palm where she has traced the signs One reads, a-tremble, terror-smitten. II Lacenaire Close by, in contrast, lying there, Encushioned, was the severed hand— Pungent-embalmed—of Lacenaire, Assassin and scourge of the land; Curio most depraved! But, though Repulsed, I reached and touched it, still Barely cleansed of its horrors! Oh! That flesh, red-downed and deathly chill! Sallow hand, like a mummy’s wrought, All yellowed, laid-out pharaoh-wise, Spreading its faun-like fingers, taut, As if to seize its tempting prize; Exuding from their tips, an itching Lusting for living flesh and gold, About to writhe, convulsed, and twitching Before their victims, as of old. Vice clawed vile hieroglyph designs Of heinous wrongs—most foul, most fell— In all its wrinkles, all its lines, Signs that the executioner knew well! One see its scabrous deeds large writ In the palm’s bestial creases, and The boiling cauldron scalding it With every crime at sin’s command; Capri’s debauches libertine, Of fleshpot brothels orgy-rife Stained through with blot of blood and wine Like the old Caesar’s blasé life. At once both soft and savage, its Shape shows a curious elegance, A fearsome grace that counterfeits The gladiator’s graceful stance! Crime’s aristocracy! No plane, No hammer’s labors ever made Its flesh tough time and time again! Its only tool, the dagger-blade... Work’s honest calluses! For you We look in vain, no sign we see: Evil’s false poet, butcher true— A Manfred of the gutter, he!