Come, my little Robert, near- <br />Fie! what filthy hands are here- <br />Who that e'er could understand <br />The rare structure of a hand, <br />With its branching fingers fine, <br />Work itself of hands divine, <br />Strong, yet delicately knit, <br />For ten thousand uses fit, <br />Overlaid with so clear skin <br />You may see the blood within, <br />And the curious palm, disposed <br />In such lines, some have supposed <br />You may read the fortunes there <br />By the figures that appear,- <br />Who this hand would choose to cover <br />With a crust of dirt all over, <br />Till it looked in hue and shape <br />Like the fore-foot of an ape? <br />Man or boy that works or plays <br />In the fields or the highways, <br />May, without offence or hurt, <br />From the soil contract a dirt, <br />Which the next clear spring or river <br />Washes out and out for ever- <br />But to cherish stains impure, <br />Soil deliberate to endure, <br />On the skin to fix a stain <br />Till it works into the grain, <br />Argues a degenerate mind, <br />Sordid, slothful, ill inclined, <br />Wanting in that self-respect <br />Which does virtue best protect. <br /> <br /> <br />All-endearing cleanliness, <br />Virtue next to godliness, <br />Easiest, cheapest, needfull'st duty, <br />To the body health and beauty, <br />Who that's human would refuse it, <br />When a little water does it?<br /><br />Charles Lamb<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cleanliness/
