THE hand that she played with is whiter
Than ivory sprinkled with snow;
And I'm but a faint-hearted fighter
With such a redoubtable foe.
The balls that for me are unruly,
Roll as if sped by a charm.
Praeneste's divinity duly
Has aided that exquisite arm!

With cool disregard of the angles,
She plays for impossible "breaks,"
My heart more completely entangles
By making seductive mistakes.
The balls fly in every direction;
My mind mathematical mourns;
The angle that's called "of reflection"
The "angle of incident" scorns!

I smile on their motions erratic;
I'm bland about "fluking" to-night;
I call up a look quite ecstatic
When calmly she pockets the white.
I win when a loser! Ah, sweetest!
You play with the daintiest heart;
That's game! My defeat's the completest,
And here is the stake, dear—my heart!