ARITHMETIC nine digits, and no more, Admits of; then I still have all my store, For what mischance hath ta'en from my left hand, It seems did only for a cipher stand, But this I'll say for thee, departed joint, Thou wert not given to steal, nor pick, nor point At any in disgrace; but thou didst go Untimely to thy death, only to show The other members what they once must do: Hand, arm, leg, thigh, and all must follow too. Oft didst thou scan my verse, where if I miss, Henceforth I will impute the cause to this. A finger's loss (I speak it not in sport) Will make a verse a foot too short, Farewell, dear finger, much I grieve to see How soon mischance hath made a hand of thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON DEATH, WITHOUT EXAGGERATION by WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA TONE PICTURE (MALIPIERO: IMPRESSONI DAL VERO) by JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER TRAFALGAR SQUARE by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES THANKSGIVING DAY by LYDIA MARIA CHILD |