Classic Poem

Very strong and flexile
Are the fingers of Miss Celia,
The shadowy, lean old-maid
Who brushes my hair,
Or rubs out the tired wrinkles about my eyes.
I see her in the mirror,
Working in creaseless white,
Bending above me with eager deftness,
An exact and skillful zeal,
So tender in its assurance
That I think of her as a sweet, gray nun
Toiling strangely for the flesh,
Of which she knows nothing.
Yet at times, when her fingers sink
Into the living tendrils of hair,
Gold, bronze, or black,
Of a young girl with half-closed eyes
And heavy lips,
There comes into Miss Celia's face
A strange concealed glow,
A sort of brooding half passion,
As if her hands were absorbing
Some of the thoughts
Passing through the brain
Half asleep beneath her fingers.