Dinah Kneading Dough
I have seen full many a sightBorn 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 knowEquals Dinah kneading dough.
Brown arms buried elbow-deepTheir domestic rhythm keep,As with steady sweep they goThrough 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 deemVery near perfection’s dream.Swift she works, and only flingsMe a glance—the least of things.And I wonder, does she knowThat my heart is in the dough?