'T was a hand
White, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and bland.
The hand of a woman is often, in youth,
Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat graceless in truth;
Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm,
Or as Sorrow has, crossed the life-line in the palm?
OWEN MEREDITH: _Lucile,_ Pt. i., Canto iii., St. 13.