I met a traveller at Antique Landwho said: "A vast and disorderly mass of
sheets and pillows lie on a California King bed.
Near them on the floor, half sunk, a shattered housewife lies, whose familiar frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its spouse well those polite requests to make the bed ignored.
Which yet survive, stamped on crooked linens,
The hand that plumped the pillows and the temper that flared. And on the bureau scrawled in the dust by her own un-manicured index finger, these words appear:
`My name is Your Wife, the Mrs. Of Mr. :
Look on my life’s work, ye married, and despair!'
Nothing bedside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, water bottles and used kleenex,
The lone and level single socks stretch far away".
Tell that its spouse well those polite requests to make the bed ignored.
Which yet survive, stamped on crooked linens,
The hand that plumped the pillows and the temper that flared. And on the bureau scrawled in the dust by her own un-manicured index finger, these words appear:
`My name is Your Wife, the Mrs. Of Mr. :
Look on my life’s work, ye married, and despair!'
Nothing bedside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, water bottles and used kleenex,
The lone and level single socks stretch far away".
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